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THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
MACMILLAN AND CO., Limited
LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA
MELBOURNE
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
NEW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO
ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO
THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd.
TORONTO
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First Edition 1890
Second Edition 1891. Reprinted 1892, 1894, 1900, 1904, 1910
Printed by R. & R. Clark, Limited, Edinburgh.
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1 Not many months since, a propos of a certain book of
epistolary parodies, the paragraphists were busily discuss-
ing the different aspects which the characters of fiction
present to different readers. It was shozvn that, not only
as regards the fainter and less strongly drawn figures —
the Frank Osbaldis tones, the Clive Newcomes, the David
Copperfields, — but even as regards what Gautier would
have called " the grotesques " — the Costigans, the
Swivellers, the Gamps, — each admirer, in his separate
" sticdy of imagination" had his own idea, which zvas
not that of another. What is true of the intellectual
perception is equally true of the pictorial. Nothing is
more notable than the diversities afforded by the same
book zvhen illustrated by different artists. Contrast for
a moment the Don Quixotes of Smirke, of Tony
fohannot, of Gustave Dore ; contrast the Falstaffs of
Kenny Meadows, of Sir John Gilbert, of Mr. Edwin A.
1 Reprinted from the English Illustrated Magazine for October 1890.
viii PREFACE
Abbey. Or, to take another instance, compare the con-
temporary illustrations of Dickens with the modern
designs of (say) Mr. Charles Green or Mr. Frederick
Barnard. The variations, it will at once be manifest,
are not the mere variations arising from ampler resource
or from fuller academic skill on the part of the younger
men. It is not alone that they have conquered the inner
secret of Mr. die Mauriers artistic stumbling-blocks —
the irreconcilable chimney-pot hat, the " terrible trousers','
the tmspeakable evening clothes of the Victorian era : it
is that their point of view is different. Nay, in the case
of Mr. Barnard, one of the first, if not the first, of
modern humorous designers, although he is studiously
loyal to the Dickens tradition as revealed by " Phiz " and
Cruikshank, he is at the same time as unlike them as it
is well possible to be. To this individual and personal
attitude of the artist must be added, among other things,
the further fact that each age has a trick of investing
the book it decorates with something of its own tem-
perament and atmosphere. It may faithfully endea-
vour to revive costume; it may reproduce accessory
with the utmost care ; but it can never look zvith the
old eyes, or see exactly in the old way. Of these positions, *
the Vicar of Wakefield is as good an example as any.
Between its earlier illustrated editions and those of the
last fifty years the gulf is wide ; while the portraits of
Dr. Primrose as presented by Rowlandson on the one
hand and Stothard on the other are as strikingly in
contrast as any of the cases above indicated. We shall
PREFACE ix
add ivhat is practically a fresh chapter to a hackneyed
history if for a page or two we attempt to give some
account of Goldsmith's story considered exclusively in its
aspect as an illustrated book.
There were no illustrations to the first edition of
i J 66. The two duodecimo volumes "on grey paper
with blunt type" printed at Salisbury in that year " by
B. Collins, for F. Newbery," were without embellishments
of any kind; and the sixth issue of 1779 had been
reached before we come to the earliest native attempt at
pictorial realisation of the characters. In the following
year appeared the first English edition with illustrations ',
being two tiny booklets bearing the imprint of one f.
Wenman, of 144 Fleet Street, and containing a couple
of poorly-executed frontispieces by the miniaturist, Daniel
Dodd. They represent the Vicar taking leave of George,
and Olivia and the Landlady — a choice of subjects in
which the artist had many subsequent imitators. The
designs have little distinction but that of priority, and
can claim no higher merit than attaches to the cheap
adornments of a cheap book. Dodd is seen to greater
advantage in one of the tivo plates which, about the
same date, figured in Harrison's Novelist's Magazine,
and also in the octavo edition of the Vicar printed for
the same publisher in 1781. These plates have the
pretty, old - fashioned ornamental framework which tlie
elder Heath and his colleagues had borrowed from the
French vignettists. Dodd illustrates the episode of the
pocket-book, while his companion Walker, at once engraver
X PREFACE
and designer, selects the second rescue of Sophia at the
precise moment when BurchelVs " great stick " has shivered
the small sword of Mr. Timothy Baxter. Walker's
design is the better of the two ; but their main interest
is that of costume -pieces, and in both the story is told
by gesture rather than by expression.
So natural is it to associate the grace of Stothard
with the grace of Goldsmith, that one almost resents the
fact that, in the collection for which he did sc/much, the
task of illustrating the Vicar fell into other hands. But
as his first relations with Harrisoiis Magazine originated
in an application made to him to correct a drawing by
Dodd for Joseph Andrews, it is probable that, before he
began to ivork regidarly for the publisher, the plates for
the Vicar had already been arranged for. Yet it was
not long before he was engaged upon the book. In 1792
was published an octavo edition, the plates of which
were beautifully engraved by Basire's pupil and Blake's
partner, fames Parker. Stothard 's designs, six in num-
ber, illustrate the Vicar taking leave of George, the
Rescue of Sophia from Drowning, the Honeysuckle
Arbour, the Vicar and^ Olivia, the Prison Sermon, and
the Family Party at the end. § The best of, them, perhaps,
is that in which Olivia's father, with an inexpressible
tenderness of gesture, lifts the half -sinking, half-kneeling
form of his repentant daughter. But thougJi none can
be said to be wanting i?i that grace which is the unfail-
ing characteristic of the artist, upon the zvhole they are
not chefs - d'ceuvre. Certainly they are not as good as
PREFACE xi
the best of the Clarissa series in Harrison ; they are not
even better than the illustrations to Sterne, the originals
of which are at South Kensington. Indeed, there is at
South Kensington a circular composition by Stothard
from the Vicar — a lightly-washed sketch in Indian ink —
which surpasses them all. The moment selected is
obscure; but the persons represented are plainly the
Wakefield family. Sir William Thornhill, and the
'Squire. The 'Squire is speaking, Olivia hides her face
in her mother's lap, Dr. Primrose listens with bent
head, and the ci-devant Mr. Burchell looks sternly at
his riephezv. The entire group, which is admirable in
refinement and composition, has all the serene gravity of
a drawing by Flaxman. Besides the above, and a pair
of plates to be mentioned presently, Stothard did a set of
twenty-four minute headpieces to a Memorandum Book
for 1805 {or thereabouts}, all of which zvere derived
from Goldsmith *s novel, and these probably do not exhaust
his efforts in this direction.
After the Stothard of 1792 comes a succession of
editions more or less illustrated. In 1793 Cooke
published the Vicar in his Select Novels, with a vignette
and plate by R. Corbould, and a plate by A nker Smith.
The last, which depicts " Olivia rejecting zvith disdain
the offer of a Purse of Money from 'Squire Thornhill,"
is not only a dainty little picture, but serves to exemplify
some of the remarks at the outset of this paper. Seven-
and-twenty years later, the same design was re-engraved
as the frontispiece to an edition published by Dean and
xii PREFACE
Munday, and the costumes were modernised to date.
TJie 'Squire Thornhill of 1793 has a three-cornered hat
and ruffles; in 1820 he wears whiskers, a stiff cravat
with a little collar, and a cocked hat set at hzvart ships.
Olivia, who disdained him in 1793 in a cap and sash,
disdains him in 1820 in her own hair and a high waist.
Cprbould's illustrations to these volumes are commonplace.
But he does better in the five plates which he supplied to
Whittinghams edition of 1800, three of zvhich, the
Honeysuckle Arbour, Moses starting on his foumey, and
Olivia and the Landlady, are pleasant enough. In
1808 followed an edition with a charming frontispiece
by S tot hard, in which the Vicar with his arm in a sling
is endeavouring to reconcile Mrs. Primrose to Olivia.
There is also a vignette by the same hand. These,
engraved at first by Heath, were repeated in 1 8 1 3 by f.
Romney. In the same year the book appeared in the
Mirror of Amusement with three plates by that artistic
fack- of -all -trades, William Marshall Craig, sometime
drazving- master to the Princess Charlotte of Wales.
There are also editions in 181 2, 1823, and 1824 with
frontispieces by tlie Academician, Tliomas Uwins. But
as an interpreter of Goldsmith, the painter of thte once-
popular Chapeau de Brigand is not inspiriting.
In following the line of engravers on copper, soon tc
be sttperseded by steel, we have neglected thie sister art Oj
engraving upon wood, of whicli the revival is practically
synchronous zvitli Harrison's Magazine. The firs
edition of the Vicar, decorated zvithi wJiat Horace Walpol
vccnun
PREFACE Xlii
Hnptiiously called " zvooden cuts" is dated 1798.
Was seven designs ; three of which are by an tcnknozvn
¥on called Eginton, and the remainder by Thomas
wick, by whom all of them are engraved. Eginton
\ be at once dismissed ; but Bewick's own work, not-
^kktanding his genuine admiration for Goldsmith,
fvuses no particular enthusiasm. He was too original
fr the illustrator of other men's ideas, and his designs,
\gh fair specimens of his technique as a xylographer,
poor as artistic conceptions. The most successful is
WProcession to Church, the stubbornness of Black-
m f t as may be imagined, being effectively rendered.
Frontispieces by Bewick also appear in editions of 1 8 1 o
and 1812 ; and betzveen 1807 and 1810 the records
k of three American issues with woodcitts by Bewick's
%r Atlantic imitator, Alexander Anderson. Whether
I were or zvere not merely copies of Bezvick, like
1 of Anderson's zvork, cannot be affirmed without
motion. Nor, for the same reason, is it possible to
zvith certainty of the edition ilhcstrated by
Wston and engraved by Bewick's pupil, Luke
w//, of which Mr. W. f Linton speaks in his
Jrs of Wood Engraving as containing a "•' Mr.
tl in the hay field reading to the tzvo Primrose
} Ul of drawing and daylight',' which should be
seeing. But the triumph of woodcut copies at
te is undoubtedly the so-called " Whittingham's
m/i " of 1 8 1 5 . This is illustrated by thirty-seven
n'uts and tailpieces engraved by the prince of modern
b
xiv PREFACE
ivood-engravers, John Thompson. The artist's name has
been modestly withheld, and the designs are sometii,
attributed to Thurston, but they are not entirely iri
manner, and we are inclined to assign them to Samuel
Williams. In any case, they are unpretending little
pieces, simple in treatment, and sympathetic in character,
The Vicar Consoled by his little Boys, and the Two x
Girls and the Forticne-teller, may be cited as favourable-
examples. But the scale is too small for much plqy y
of expression. " Whittingham's edition " was very popin
lar, and copies are by no means rare. It was cer-
tainly republished in 1822 and 1825, and probably
there are other issues. And so zve come to that most,
extraordinary of contributions by a popidar designer fo
the embellishment of a popidar author, the Vicar of
Thomas Rowlandson.
Rowlandson was a caricaturist, and his Vicar is a
caricature. He was not without artistic power ; he
could, if he liked, draw a beautiful woman (it is trim
that his ideal generally deserves those epithets of
"plantureux, luxuriant, exuberant" which the painter in
Gerfaut gives to the charms of Mile. Reine Gobilloi) ;
but he did not care to modify his ordinary style. Conse-
quently he has illustrated Goldsmith's masterpiece as he
illustrated Combe's Doctor Syntax, and the result is a
pictorial outrage. The unhappy Primrose family romp
through his pages, vulgarised by all sorts of indignities,
and the reader reaches the last of the " twenty '-foiir
coloured plates" which Ackermann put forth in I 817,
PREFACE xv
and again in 1823, as one escaping from a nightmare.
It is only necessary to glance at Stothard's charming
little plate of Hunt the Slipper in Rogers's Pleasures
of Memory of 1802 to see how far from the Goldsmith
spirit is Rowlandson's treatment of the same pastime.
Where he is most endurable, is where his designs to the
Vicar have the least relation to the personages of the
book, as, for example, in " A Connoissetir Mellowing the
Tone of a Picture" which is simply a humorous print
neither better nor zvorse than any of the other humorous
prints with which he was wont to fill the windows of
the " Repository of Arts " in Piccadilly.
It is a relief to turn from the coarse rotundities of
Rowlandson to the edition which immediately folloived —
that known to collectors as Sharpes. It contains five
illustrations by Richard Westall, engraved on copper by
Corbotdd, Warren, Romney, and others. Westall' 's designs
are of tlie school of Stothard — that is to say, they are
gracefid and elegant rather than humorous ; but they are
most beautifully rendered by their engravers. The
Honeysuckle Arbour {George Corbould), where the girls
lean across the table to watch the labouring stag as it
pants past, is one of the most brilliant little pictures we
ever remember to have seen. In 1829, William Find en
re-engraved the whole of these designs on steel, slightly
reducing tJwm in size, and the merits of the two methods
may be compared. It is hard to adjudge tlw palm.
Findeu's fifth plate especially, depicting Sophias return to
the Vicar in Prison, is a miracle of executive finesse.
<">
xvi PREFACE
Goldsmittis next illustrators of importance are
Cruikshank and Mulready. The contributions of the
former are limited to two plates for Vol. X. (1832) of
Roscoe's Novelist's Library, They are not successes.
The kindly Genius of Broadgrin is hardly as vulgar as
Rozvlandson, but his efforts to make his subject " comic"
at all risks, are not the less disastrous, and there is
little of the Vicar, or Mrs. Primrose, or even Moses,
in the sketch with which he illustrates the tragedy of
the gross of green spectacles ; while the most salient
characteristic of the somewhat more successful Hunt the
Slipper is the artists inveterate tendency to make the
waists of his women (in the words of Pope's imitation of
Prior) "fine by defect, and delicately weak? Mulready s
designs (1843), excellently interpreted by fohn Thompson,
have a far greater reputation, — a reputation heightened
not a little by the familiar group of pictures which he
elaborated from three of the sketches. Choosing the
Wedding Gown, the Whistonian Controversy, and Sophia
and Burchell Haymaking, with their unrivalled rendering
of texture and material, are among the painter's . most
successful works in oil ; and it is the fashion to speak of
his illustrated Vicar as if all of its designs were at the
same artistic level. This is by no means the case. Some of
them, e.g. Olivia measuring herself with the 'Squire, have
playfulness and charm, but the majority are not only
crowded in composition, but heavy and unattractive.
Mulready's paintings, however, and the generally dif-
fused feeling that the domestic note in his work should
PREFACE xvn
make him a born illustrator of Goldsmith, have given
him a prestige which cannot now be gainsaid.
After Mnlready follows a crowd of minor illustrators.
One of the most successful of these was the clever artist
George Thomas ; one of the most disappointing, because
his gifts were of so high an order, was the late G f.
Pinzvell. Of Absolon, Anelay, Gilbert, and the rest, it
is impossible to speak here, and we must close this rapid
summary with brief reference to some of the foreign
editions.
At the beginning of this paper, in enumerating certain
of the causes for the diversities, pleasing or otherwise,
which prevail in illustrated copies of the classics, we
purposely reserved one which it is more convenient to
treat in connection with those books when " embellished "
by foreign artists. If, even in the country of birth, each
age {as has been well said of translations) " a eu de ce
cote son belvedere different," it follows that every other
country will have its point of view, which will be at
variance zvith that of a native. To say that no book
dealing with human nature in the abstract is capable of
being adequately illustrated except in the country of its
origin, would be to state a proposition in imminent
danger of prompt contradiction. But it may be safely
asserted, that, except by an artist zvho, from long residence
or familiarity, has enjoyed unusual facilities for assimi-
lating the national atmosphere, no novel of manners
{to which class the Vicar tmdoubtedly belongs) can be
illustrated zvith complete success by a foreigner. For this
xviii PREFACE
reason, it will not be necessary here to do more than refer
briefly to the principal French and German editions. In
either coimtry the Vicar has had the advantage of being
artistically interpreted by draughtsmen of marked ability ;
but in both cases the solecisms are thicker than tJw
beauties.
It must be admitted, notwithstanding, for Germany,
that it was earlier in the field than England. Wen-
maris edition is dated 1780; but it was in 1776 that
August Mylius, of Berlin, issued the first frontispiece of
the Vicar. It is an etching by the Berlin Hogarth,
Daniel Chodozviecki, prefixed to an English reprint of
the second edition, and represents the popular episode of
Mr, Burchell and the pocket-book. The poor Vicar is
transformed into a loose- lipped, heavy fowled German
pastor in a dressing-gown and slippers, while Mr. Burchell
becomes a slim personage in top-boots, and such a hunls-
maris cap as stage tradition assigns to Tony Lumpkin.
In the Almanac Genealogique for 1777 Chodowiecki
returned to this subject, and produced a series of twelve
charming plates — little marvels of delicate execution —
upon the same theme. Some of these, e.g. the " Conversa-
tion brillante des Dames de la ville " and " George sur le
Teatre (sic) reconnoit son Pere " — are delightfully quaint.
But they are not illustrations of the text — and there is
no more to say. The same radical objection applies
to the illustrations, full of fancy, ingenuity, and playful-
ness as they are, of another German, Ludwig Richter.
His edition has often been reprinted. But it is stifficient
PREFACE xix
to glance at his barefooted Sophia, making hay with her
strazv hat at her back, in order to decide against it.
One crosses out " Sophia " and zvrites in " Frederika."
She may have lived at Sesenheim, but never at
Wakefield. In like manner, the insular mind recoils
from the spectacle of the patriarchal fenkinson studying
the Cosmogony in company with a tankard of a make
unmistakably Teutonic.
In France, to judge by certain entries in Cohen's
invaluable Guide de l'Amateur de Livres a Vignettes,
the book seems to have been illustrated as early as the
end of the last century. Huot and Texier are mentioned
as artists, but their works have escaped us. The chief
French edition, however, is that which belongs to the
famous series of books " aux images incrustees en plein
texte " (as fules fanin says), inaugurated in 1835^ the
Gil Bias of fean Gigoux. The Vicaire de Wakefield
(Boicrgueleret, 1838), admirably paraphrased by Charles
Nodier, zvas accompanied by ten engravings on steel by
William Finden after Tony fohannot, and a number of
small woodcuts, entetes and culs-de-lampe by Janet
Lange, Charles facque, and C Marville} As composi-
tions, fohannot s contributions are effective, but highly
theatrical, while his types are frankly French. Of the
zvoodcuts it may be sufficient to note that when the Vicar
and Mrs. Primrose discuss the prospects of the family in
- the privacy of their own chamber, they do so (in the picture)
1 To the edition of 1843, which does not contain these woodcuts, is
added one by Meissonier.
xx PREFACE
from tzvo separate four-posters with tivisted tiprights,
and a crucifix betzveen them. The same eccentricities ;
though scarcely so naively ignorant, are not absent from the
work of two much more modern artists ; M. V. A.
Poirson and M. Adolphe Lalauze. M. Poirson
(Quantin, 1885) who, in his own domain, has extra-
ordinary skill as a decorative artist, depicts * Squire
Thornhill as a gay young French chasseur with many-
buttoned gaiters and a fusil en bandouliere, while the
hero of the Elegy on a Mad Dog appears in those
" wooden shoes " {with straw in thetn) which for so long
were to English cobblers the chief terror of a French
invasion. M. Lalauze again (fouaust, 1888), for
whose distinguished gifts (in their place) we have the
keenest admiration, promotes the whole Wakefield family
into the haute noblesse. An elegant Dr. Primrose
blesses an elegant George with the air of a Rochefou-
caidt, while Mrs. Primrose, in the background, zvith the
Bible and cane, is a grande dame de par le monde.
Under the same treatment, the scene in tJie hayfield
becomes a fete galante after the fashion of Lancret or
Watteau.
Upon the whole, dismissing foreign artists for tthe
reason given above, one is forced to the conclusion that
Goldsmith has not hitherto found his fitting pictorial
interpreter. Stothard and Mulready ' have accentuated
his graver side; Cruikshank and Rowlandson have •
exaggerated his humour. But no single artist in the
past, as far as we are aware, has, in any just proportidip,
PREFACE xxi
combined them both. By the delicate quality of his art,
by the alliance in his work of a grace and playfidness
which .has a kifid of parallel in Goldsmith's literary
style, the late Mr. Randolph Caldecott seemed always
to suggest that he could, if he would, supply this want.
But, apart from the captivating play -book of the Mad
Dog and a frontispiece in the Parchment Library, '
Mr. Caldecott contributed nothing to the illustration of
Goldsmith's novel
AUSTIN DOB SON.
Ealing, October 1890.
Goldsmith's Chair and Cane,
South Kensington Museum.
CHAPTER I
PAGE
The Description of the Family of Wakefield, in which a kindred
Likeness prevails, as well of Minds as of Persons . . i
CHAPTER II
Family Misfortunes. T^ie Loss of Fortune only serves to increase
the Pride of the Worthy . . . . . .10
GHAPTER III
A Migration. The fortunate Circumstances of our Lives are gener-
ally found at last to be of our own procuring . . .20
CHAPTER IV
A Proof that even the humblest- Fortune may grant Happiness,
which depends, not on Circumstances, but Constitution . 31
CHAPTER V
A new and great Acquaintance introduced. What we place most
Hopes upon, generally proves most fatal . . 39
xxiv CONTENTS
CHAPTER VI
PAGE
The Happiness of a Country Fireside . . , . 47
CHAPTER VII
A Town Wit described. The dullest Fellows may learn to be
comical for a Night or Two . . . . -55
CHAPTER VIII
An Amour which promises little good Fortune yet may be pro-
ductive of much . . . . . . .62
CHAPTER IX
Two Ladies of great Distinction introduced. Superior Finery ever
seems to confer superior Breeding . . . 71
CHAPTER X
The Family endeavour to cope with their Betters. The Miseries of
the Poor, when they attempt to appear above their Circumstances j8
CHAPTER XI
The Family still resolve to hold up their Heads . . &J
CHAPTER XII
Fortune seems resolved to humble the Family of Wakefield.
Mortifications are often more painful than real Calamities . 96
CHAPTER XIII
Mr. Burchell is found to be an Enemy, for he has the confidence to
give disagreeable Advice . . . . .106
CONTENTS xxv
CHAPTER XIV
PAGE
Fresh Mortifications, or a Demonstration that seeming Calamities
may be real Blessings . . . . , 1 1 1
CHAPTER XV
All Mr. Burchell's Villainy at once detected. The Folly of being
overwise . . . . . . , .122
CHAPTER XVI
The Family use Art, which is opposed with still greater . .129
CHAPTER XVII
Scarcely any Virtue found to resist the Power of long and pleasing
Temptation . . . . . . 137
CHAPTER XVIII
The Pursuit of a Father to reclaim a Lost Child to Virtue . . 148
CHAPTER XIX
The Description of a Person discontented with the Present Govern-
ment and apprehensive of the Loss of our Liberties . 155
CHAPTER XX
The History of a philosophic Vagabond, pursuing Novelty, but
losing Content . . . . . . .167
xxvi CONTENTS
CHAPTER XXI
PAGE
The short continuance of Friendship amongst the vicious, which is
coeval only with mutual satisfaction . . . .189
CHAPTER XXII
Offences are easily pardoned, where there is Love at bottom . 202
CHAPTER XXIII
None but the Guilty can be long and completely miserable . . 209
CHAPTER XXIV
Fresh Calamities . . . . . . .216
CHAPTER XXV
No Situation, however wretched it seems, but has some sort of
Comfort attending it ..... . 224
CHAPTER XXVI
A Reformation in the Gaol : to make laws complete, they should
reward as well as punish . . . . .232
CHAPTER XXVII
The same Subject continued . . . .241
CHAPTER XXVIII
Happiness and Misery rather the Result of Prudence than of Virtue
in this Life ; temporal Evils or Felicities being regarded by
Heaven as things merely in themselves trifling, and unworthy its
care in the distribution . . . . . 247
CONTENTS
CHAPTER XXIX
rJKqual Dealings of Providence demonstrated with regard to the
tlappy and the Miserable here below. That, from the nature
bf Pleasure and Pain, the Wretched must be repaid the balance
of their Sufferings in the Life hereafter .... 262
CHAPTER XXX
Happier Prospects begin to appear. Let us be inflexible, and Fortune
will at last change in our Favour .... 268
CHAPTER XXXI
Former Benevolence now repaid with unexpected Interest
\W ■
Conclusion
CHAPTER XXXII
280
300
\
Olivia .....
Fro7itispiece
Dedication ....
v
Heading to Preface .
vii
t Goldsmith's Chair and Cane .
xxi
Heading to Contents .
. xxiii
Tailpiece to Contents .
xxvii
Heading to List of Illustrations
. xxix
Tailpiece tp-Li^k of Illustrations
. xxxiv
Advertisement
. xxxv
Heading to Chapter I.
I
" We had an elegant house " .
2
" To taste our gooseberry wine "
3
" Tp lend him a riding-coat " .
4
" In the most pathetic parts of my sermon "
6
' ' Would bid the girls hold up their heads "
8
Tailpiece to Chapter I.
9
Heading to Chapter II.
IO
An Exhortation to Matrimony
ii
Mrs. Primrose's Epitaph
12
" On fine days rode a-hunting "
14
"And then gazed in the glass "
15
' ' With the music-master's assistance "
16
' ' The completing a tract "
17
The great Whiston Controversy
18
Tailpiece to Chapter II.
19
Heading to Chapter III.
20
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
" To spare an old broken soldier "
" Mr. Burchell and I bringing up the rear
" Pointing to a magnificent house " .
The Rescue of Sophia . . '
Up in the Clouds
Heading to Chapter IV.
" Came out to meet their minister " .
' ' Our little habitation "
" The Cruelty of Barbara Allen "
" To read the lessons of the day "
" In all their former splendour "
" With an important air "
Tailpiece to Chapter IV.
Heading to Chapter V.
"And enjoy the breeze that wafted both health and harmony
" Come sweeping along"
" With a careless superior air "
" Which she returned with a curtsey "
" Lifting up the flaps of his pocket-holes
Tailpiece to Chapter V.
Heading to Chapter VI.
' * Little Dick reached him a chair "
" The history of Patient Grissel "
" A lump of sugar each "
" To whose child he was carrying a whistle '
" This was said without the least design "
" Seemingly by accident "
Heading to Chapter VII.
" Mr. Thornhill came with a couple of friends
* ' Winked on the rest of the company "
' ' No, Sir, there I protest you are too hard for me
Tailpiece to Chapter VII.
Heading to Chapter VIII.
" Our family dined in the field "
" Bursting through the hedge "
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Tailpiece to Chapter VIII. .
Heading to Chapter IX.
" Our landlord and two young ladies richly dressed "
" Returned with my neighbour Flamborough's rosy daughters
8 ' Two fiddles, with a pipe and tabor "
" As pat to the music as its echo "
" Kept up beyond the usual time "
Heading to Chapter X.
" I was tired of being always wise " .
" True-love-knots lurked in the bottom of every teacup "
"With looks that betrayed a latent plot "
Blackberry and the Colt
' ' I walked on to the church "
" I waited near an hour "
" At first refused to move from the door "
Heading to Chapter XI.
" His manner of telling stories "
" Jernigan ! Jernigan ! bring me my garters "
"Fudge" .....
Tailpiece to Chapter XI.
Heading to Chapter XII. .
" Fitting out Moses for the fair "
Moses starting for the Fair
"And gave the messenger sevenpence halfpenny"
" Moses came slowly on foot "
" Dear mother, why won't you listen to reason ? "
Tailpiece to Chapter XII.
Heading to Chapter XIII.
" I'll take my leave therefore "
Tailpiece to Chapter XIII.
Heading to Chapter XIV.
" To advise me, in a whisper "
At the Fair .....
" Wholly intent over a large book " .
" The modest youth shed tears"
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
" Go and get gold for this " .
" He read it twice over "
Tailpiece to Chapter XIV.
Heading to Chapter XV.
" Found on the green "
" Mr. Burchell was approaching "
Tailpiece to Chapter XV.
Heading to Chapter XVI.
" Setting my two little ones to box "
" Drawn together in one large historical family piece
Mr. Spanker .
Heading to Chapter XVII.
" But he persuaded her again
" They drove off very fast "
Tailpiece to Chapter XVII.
Heading to Chapter XVIII.
" I was met by a person on horseback
" A very well-dressed gentleman "
Tailpiece to Chapter XVIII. .
Heading to Chapter XIX.
" The player, with a wink " .
"'What!' cried he".
" Welcomed me with most cordial hospitality
Tailpiece to Chapter XIX.
Heading to Chapter XX.
" But cheerful as the birds that carolled by the road '
" Drew out a bundle of proposals "
" A young gentleman approached me"
"Are you the bearer of this here letter?
Mr. Crispe ....
"All you have to do is to teach the Dutchmen English
" This amazed me " .
" I played one of my most merry tunes "
Tailpiece to Chapter XX.
Heading to Chapter XXI.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
* ' Informed me, with a whisper "
" He replied by drinking her health "
" Caught the dear forlorn wretch in my arms
" I burst from him in a rage "
Tailpiece to Chapter XXI.
Heading to Chapter XXII. .
" I strove to calm her sorrows "
''While the family stood, with silent agony
' * Here, dear papa, here we are "
Tailpiece to Chapter XXII. .
Heading to Chapter XXIII. .
"With the kindest condolence "
" In the grandest equipage " .
Tailpiece to Chapter XXIII. .
Heading to Chapter XXIV. .
" ' Avoid my sight, thou reptile,' cried I "
" To demand my annual rent "
"They came in"
Heading to Chapter XXV. .
" And walked on slowly "
" You talk of the world, Sir ".
" To call over the prisoners' names "
Tailpiece to Chapter XXV. .
Heading to Chapter XXVI. .
" Perfectly merry upon the occasion "
" Swearing that I was a very honest fellow
" And loved the ladies "
"He slapped his forehead " .
Heading to Chapter XXVII. .
Tailpiece to Chapter XXVII.
Heading to Chapter XXVIII.
" Leaning on her sister's arm "
"Who were using all their innocent efforts to comfort
" And delivered the letter " .
" The keeper entered "
XXXlll
PAGE
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Heading to Chapter XXIX. .
Tailpiece to Chapter XXIX. .
Heading to Chapter XXX. .
"With oaths and menaces drew his sword '
" Climbed up Sir William's knee "
Tailpiece to Chapter XXX. .
Heading to Chapter XXXI. .
" Hauling in a tall man "
" She learned from him "
" To make a genteel appearance "
" Received by the shouts of the villagers"
Tailpiece to Chapter XXXI. .
Heading to Chapter XXXII. .
" Learning to blow the French horn "
"At which jest"
Tailpiece to Chapter XXXII.
PAGE
262
267
268
271
278
279
280
283
286
289
298
299
300
303
304
30S
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(L
m% Description of ifo Jfan.(6f of tjatytfetif, <n cofa/i a kindred
^rj< (fferws prrevafa, an coeCCofJ^mdt as ofJertons.
\TOC(<f ever of opinion, that the honest
man who married and brought up a
large family did more service than he
who continued single, and only talked
of population. , From this motive, I
had scarce taken orders a year before
lft£gan to think seriously of matrimony, and chose
ffi B
Chap.
/THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
my wife, as she did her wedding-gown, not for a fine,
glossy surface, but for such qualities as would wear well.
To do her justice, she was a good-natured notable
woman ; and, as for breeding, there were few country
ladies who could show more. She could read any
English book without much spelling ; but for pickling,
preserving, and cookery, none could excel her. She
iver
prided herself also upon being an excellent contrrv
in housekeeping ; though I could never find that we
grew richer with all her contrivances.
However, we loved each other tenderly, and our
fondness increased as we grew old. There was, in fact,
nothing that could make us angry with the world or
each other. We had an elegant house situated in a
fine country, and a good neighbourhood. The year
was spent in a moral or rural amusement, in visiting
our rich neighbours, and relieving such as were poor.
We had no revolutions to fear, nor fatigues to undergo ;
i DESCRIPTION OF THE FAMILY 3
all our adventures were by the fireside, and all our
migrations from the blue bed to the brown.
\; :.;As we lived near the road, we often had the traveller
or. stranger visit us to taste our gooseberry wine, for
which, we had great reputation ; and I profess, with the
Jo taJtz ocLr£Ooje6Q7^'&ne^^^^j0^
veracity of an historian, that I never knew one of them
find fault with it. Our cousins, too, even to the fortieth
remove, all remembered their affinity, without any help
from the heralds' ^office, and came very frequently to
see us. Some of them did us no great honour by
thesei claims of kindred ; as we had the blind, the
mainped, and the halt amongst the number. However,
4 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
my wife always insisted that, as they were the same
flesh and blood, they should sit with us at the same
table. So that, if we had not very rich, we generally
had very happy friends about us ; for this remark will
hold good through life, that the poorer the guest, the
Jo Q'njb f)im. ctarccicrij QjaK
better pleased he ever is with being treated : and as
some men gaze with admiration at the colours of a
tulip, or the wing of a butterfly, so I was, by nature, an
admirer of happy human faces. However, when any
one of our relations was found to be a person of very
bad character, a troublesome guest, or one we desired
I DESCRIPTION OF THE FAMILY 5
to get rid of, upon his leaving my house I ever took
care to lend him a riding-coat, or a pair of boots, or
/sometimes an horse of small value, and I always had
the satisfaction of finding he never came back to return
them. By this the house was cleared of such as we
did not Jike ; but never was the family of Wakefield
known to turn the traveller or the poor dependant out
of doors.
Thus we lived several years in a state of much
happiness, not but that we sometimes had those little
rubs which Providence sends to enhance the value of
its favours. My orchard was often robbed by school-
boys, and my wife's^custards plundered by the cats or
the children. The Squire would sometimes fall asleep
in the most 'pathetic parts of my sermon, or his lady
return my wife's civilities at church with a mutilated
curtsey. But we soon got over the uneasiness caused
by such accidents, and usually in three or four days
began to wonder how they vexed us.
My children, the offspring of temperance, as they
were educated without softness, so they were at once
well-formed and healthy ; my sons hardy and active,
my daughters beautiful and blooming. When I stood
in the midst of the little circle, which promised to be
the supports of my declining age, I could not avoid
repeating the famous story of Count Abensberg who,
in Henry the Second's progress through Germany,
while other courtiers came with their treasures, brought
his thirty- two children, and presented them to his
sovereign as the most valuable offering he had to
bestow. In this manner, though I had but six, I
considered them as a very valuable present made to
my country, and consequently looked upon it as my
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
debtor. Our eldest son was named George, after his
uncle, who left us ten thousand pounds. Our second
ofr^y Sermon"
child, a girl, I intended to call after her aunt Grissel ;
but my wife, who during her pregnancy had been
reading romances, insisted upon her being called Olivia.
I DESCRIPTION OF THE FAMILY 7
In less than another year we had another daughter,
and how I was determined that Grissel should be her
name ; but a rich relation taking a fancy to stand
godmother, the girl was, by her directions, called
Sophia; so that we had two romantic names in the
family ; but I solemnly protest I had no hand in it.
Moses was our next, and, after an interval of twelve
years, we had two sons more.
It would be fruitless to deny exultation when I saw
my little ones about me ; but the vanity and the
satisfaction of my wife were even greater than mine.
When our visitors would say, "Well, upon my word,
Mrs. Primrose, you have the finest children in the
whole country ; " — " Ay, neighbour," she would answer,
"they are as Heaven made them, handsome enough, if
they be good enough ; for handsome is that handsome -
does." And then she would bid the girls hold up
their heads ; who, to conceal nothing, were certainly
very handsome. Mere outside is so very trifling a
circumstance with me, that I should scarce have
remembered to mention it, had it not been a general
topic of conversation in the country. Olivia, now
about eighteen, had that luxuriancy of beauty with
which painters , generally draw Hebe ; open, sprightly,
and commanding. Sophia's features were not so
striking at first, but often did more certain execution ;
for they were soft, modest, and alluring. The one '
vanquished by a single blow, the other by efforts
successfully repeated.
The temper of a woman is generally formed from
the turn of her features : at least it was so with my
daughters. Olivia wished for many lovers ; Sophia
to secure one. Olivia was often affected, from too great
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
CHAP.
a desire to please ; Sophia even repressed excellence,
from her fears to offend. The one entertained me
with her vivacity when I was gay, the other with her
sense when I was serious. But these qualities were
never carried to excess in either, and I have often seen
V TSfaf &**<{f
them exchange characters for a whole day together.
A suit -of mourning has transformed my coquette into
a prude, and a new set of ribands has given her
younger sister more than natural vivacity. My eldest
son George was bred at Oxford, as I intended him for
one of the learned professions. My second boy Moses,
whom I designed for business, received a sort of
I DESCRIPTION OF THE FAMILY 9
miscellaneous education at home. But it is needless
to attempt describing the particular characters of young
people that had seen but very little of the world. In
short, a family likeness prevailed through all, and,
properly speaking, they had but one character, — that
of being all equally generous, credulous, simple, and j
inoffensive.
Jaml(xf c/^f/brticcr&T. 3?k 4Sf of<%ft«r& on(y
Sewef to increase tffe JfccCt oftfie Worthy.
|W temporal concerns of our family were
chiefly committed to my wife's manage-
ment ; as to the spiritual, I took them
entirely under my own direction. The
profits of my living, which amounted to but thirty-five
pounds a year, I made over to the orphans and widows
of the clergy of our diocese ; for, haying a fortune
of my own, I was careless of temporalities, and felt
a secret pleasure in doing my duty without reward.
I also set a resolution of keeping no curate, and of
being acquainted with every man in the parish, ex-
horting the married men to temperance, and the
bachelors to matrimony : so that in a few years it was
FAMILY MISFORTUNES
a common saying, that there were three strange wants
at Wakefield, a parson wanting pride, young men
wanting wives, and ale-houses wanting customers.
Matrimony was always one of my favourite topics,
and I wrote several sermons to prove its happiness :
but there was a peculiar tenet which I made a point
of supporting ; for I maintained with Whiston^that it
was unlawful for a priest of the Church of England,
after the death of his first wife, to take a second, or, to
express it in one word, I valued myself upon being a
strict monogamist.
I was early initiated into this important dispute,
on which so many laborious^volumes have been written.
I published some tracts u^on the subject myself, which,
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
as they never sold, I have the consolation of thinking
were read only by the happy fezv. Some of my friends
called this my weak side ; but alas ! they had not,
like me, made it the subject of long contemplation.
The more I reflected upon it, the more important it
appeared. I even went a step beyond Whiston in dis-
ii FAMILY MISFORTUNES 13
playing my principles : as he had engraven upon his
wife's tomb that she was the only wife of William
Whiston, so I wrote a similar epitaph for my wife,
though still living, in which I extolled her prudence,
economy, and obedience till death ; and having got it
copied fair, with an elegant frame, it was placed over
the chimney-piece, where it answered several very
useful purposes : it admonished my wife of her duty
to me, and my fidelity to her ; it inspired her with a
passion for fame, and constantly put her in mind of
her end.
It was thus, perhaps, from hearing marriage so often
recommended, that my eldest son, just upon leaving
college, fixed his affections upon the daughter of a
neighbouring clergyman, who was a dignitary in the
church, and in circumstances to give her a large fortune.
But fortune was her smallest accomplishment. Miss
Arabella Wilmot was allowed by all (except my two
daughters) to be completely pretty. Her youth, health,
and innocence were still heightened by a complexion
so transparent, and such- a happy sensibility of look, as
even age could not gaze on with indifference. As Mr.
Wilmot knew that I could make a very handsome
settlement on my son, he was not averse to the match ;
so both families lived together in all that harmony
which generally precedes an expected alliance. Being
convinced by experience that the days of courtship are
the most happy of our lives, I was willing enough to
lengthen the period ; and the various amusements which
the young couple every day shared in each other's
company seemed to increase their passion. We were
generally awaked in the morning by music, and on fine
days rode a-hunting. The hours between breakfast and
14
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
dinner the ladies devoted to dress and study ; they;
usually read a page, and then gazed at themselves in
the glass, which even philosophers might own often
presented the page of greatest beauty. At dinner my
wife took the lead ; for, as she always insisted upon
carving everything herself, it being her mother's way,
she, gave us upon these occasions the history of every
dish. When we had dined, to prevent the ladies leaving
us, I generally ordered the table to be removed ; and
FAMILY MISFORTUNES
15
sometimes, with; the music-master's assistance, the girls
would give us a very agreeable concert. Walking out,
drinking tea, country-dances, - and forfeits, shortened
the rest of the day, without the assistance of cards, as
J ■
I hated all manner of gaming, except backgammon,
at which my old friend and I sometimes took a two-
penny hit. Nor can I here pass over an ominous cir-
cumstance that happened the last time . we; played
together, t I only wanted to fling a quatre, and yet I
threw deuce ace .five times running. [ * .-• \ ], •
Some months were elapsed in this manner,- till-.- at
i6
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
CHA3
last it was thought convenient to fix a day for the
.nuptials of the young couple, who seemed earnestly to
desire it. During the preparations for the wedding, I
need not describe the busy importance of my wife, nor
the sly looks of my daughters : in fact, my attention \
fixed on another object, — the completing a tract, whi
I intended shortly to publish, in defence of my favour
principle. As I looked upon this as a masterpiece, both
for argument and style, I could not, in the pride of my
FAMILY MISFORTUNES 17
hearf, avoid showing it to my old friend Mr. Wilmot, as
I mjade no doubt of receiving his approbation : but
not ^ill too late I discovered that he was most violently
e CO?K>{)(etcn& a tfVfccd^
tached to the contrary opinion, and with good reason ;
I he was at that time actually courting a fourth wife,
bis, as may be expected, produced a dispute, attended
*th some acrimony, which threatened to interrupt our
c
THE ?VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
CHAP.
intended alliance ; but, on the day before that appoin|e ; d|;
for the ceremony, we agreed to discuss the subject at
large.
It was managed with proper spirit on both sides ;
he asserted that I was heterodox ; I retorted the charge :
+2 ,.-..— r—...^:
he replied, and I rejoined. In the meantime, while the
controversy was hottest, I was called out by orie of nfl^
relations, who, with a face of concern, advised me
give up the dispute, at least till my son's wedding wj
over. " How/' cried I, " relinquish the cause of trull
and let him be a husband, already driven to the ve
verge of absurdity ? You might as well advise me to
give up my fortune as my argument." — " Your fortune,"
II FAMILY MISFORTUNES 19
returned my friend, " I am now sorry to inform you, is
almost nothing. The merchant in town, in whose hands
your money was lodged, has gone off, to avoid a statute
of bankruptcy, and is thought not to have left a shilling
in the pound. I was unwilling to shock you or the
family with the account till after the wedding : but now
it may serve to moderate your warmth in the argument ;
for, I suppose, your own prudence will enforce the ne-
cessity of dissembling, at least till your son has the
young lady's fortune secure." — " Well," returned I, " if
what you tell me be true, and if I am to be a beggar,
it shall never make me a rascal, or induce me to disavow
my principles. I'll go this moment and inform the
company of my circumstances : and, as for the argu-
ment, I even here retract my former concessions in the
old gentleman's favour, nor will allow him now to be a
husband in any sense of the expression."
It would be endless to describe the different sensa-
tions of both families when I divulged the news of our
misfortune : but what others felt was slight to what the
lovers appeared to endure. Mr. Wilmot, who seemed
before sufficiently inclined to break off the match, waSj
by this blow, soon determined : one virtue he had in
perfection, which was prudence, too often the only one
that is left us at seventy-two.
Cfcxfiter \
cTo JKiyratcori. ^/fiejortccriate
rcamffrances of our /Tver are generaCCy
found at (art to Go. of our ocori procuring.
US. only hope of our family now was,
that the report of our misfortune
might be malicious or premature ; but
a letter from my agent in town soon
came, with a confirmation of every
particular. The loss of fortune to
myself alone would have been trifling ;
the only uneasiness I felt was for my
family, who were to be humbled with-
in i^out an education to render them callous
Iks'
'"tittf to contempt.
Near a fortnight had passed, before
I attempted to restrain their affliction ;
for premature consolation is but the
remembrancer of sorrow. During this
interval, my thoughts were employed
chap, in A MIGRATION 21
on some future means of supporting them ; and at
last a small cure of fifteen pounds a year was offered
me, in a distant neighbourhood, where I could still
enjoy nay principles without molestation. With this
proposal I joyfully closed, having determined to in-
crease my salary by managing a little farm.
Having taken this resolution, my next care was to
get together the wrecks of my fortune ; and, all debts
collected and paid, out of fourteen thousand pounds we
had but four hundred remaining. My chief attention,
n therefore, was now to bring down the pride of my
family to their circumstances ; for I well knew that
aspiring beggary is wretchedness itself. " You cannot
be ignorant, my children," cried I, " that no prudence of
ours could have prevented our late misfortune ; but
prudence may do much in disappointing its effects,
,We are now poor, my fondlings, and wisdom bids us'
conform to our humble situation. Let us then, without
repining, give up those splendours with which numbers
are wretched, and seek in humbler circumstances that
peace with which all may be happy. The poor live
pleasantly without our help ; why, then, should not we
learn to live without theirs ? No, my children, let us
from this moment give up all pretensions to gentility :
we have still enough left for happiness if we are wise, and
' let us draw upon content for the deficiencies of fortune."
As my eldest son was bred a scholar, I determined
to send him to town, where his abilities might contribute
to our support and his own. The separation of friends
and families is, perhaps, one of the most distressful
circumstances attendant on .fienujcv^ The day soon
arrived on which we were to disperse for the first time.
My son, after taking leave of his mother and the rest.
22 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD char
who mingled their tears with their kisses, came to ask
a blessing from me. This I gave him from my heart,
and which, added to five guineas, was all the patrimony
I had now to bestow. " You are going, my boy," cried
I, " to London on foot, in the manner Hooker, your
great ancestor, travelled there before you. Take from
me the same horse that was given him by the good
bishop Jewel, this staff, and take this book, too, it will
be your comfort on the way : these two lines in it are
worth a million, — ' I have been young, and now am
old ; yet never saw I the righteous man forsaken, or
his seed begging their bread.' Let this be your con-
solation as you travel on. Go, my boy ; whatever be thy
(fortune, let me see thee once a year ; still keep a good
heart, and farewell." As he was possessed of integrity
and honour, I was under no apprehensions from throwing
\ him naked into the amphitheatre of life ; for I knew he
(would act a good part whether vanquished or victorious.
His departure only prepared the way for our own,
which arrived a few days afterwards. The leaving a
neighbourhood in which we had enjoyed so many hours
of tranquillity was not without a tear, which scarce
fortitude itself could suppress. Besides, a journey of
seventy miles, to a family that had hitherto never been
above ten from home, filled us with apprehension ; and
the cries of the poor, who followed us for some miles,
contributed to increase it. The first day's journey
brought us in safety within thirty miles of our future
retreat, and we put up for the night at an obscure inn
in a village by the way. When we were shown a room,
I desired the landlord, in my usual way, to let us have
his company, with which he complied, as what he drank
would increase the bill next morning. He knew,
Ill
A MIGRATION
*3
however, the whole neighbourhood to which I was re-
moving, particularly Squire Thornhill, who was to be
my landlord, and who lived within a few miles of the
place. This gentleman he described as one who de-
sired to know little more of the world than its pleasures,
Ia> <Jfi<tre an. o(d.
6rofen Jh(<U
being particularly remarkable for his attachment for
the fair sex. He observed that no virtue was able to
resist his arts and assiduity, and that scarce a farmer's
daughter within ten miles round but what had found
him successful and faithless. Though this- account
gave me some pain, it had a very different effect upon
24 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
my daughters, whose features seemed to brighten with
the expectation of an approaching triumph : nor was
my wife less pleased and confident of their allurements
and virtue. While our thoughts were thus employed,
the hostess entered the room to inform her husband
that the strange gentleman, who had been two days in
the house, wanted money, and could not satisfy them
for his reckoning. " Want money ! " replied the host,
" that must be impossible ; for it was no later than
yesterday he paid three guineas to our beadle to spare
an old broken soldier that was to be whipped through
the town for dog-stealing." The hostess, however, still
persisting in her first assertion, he was preparing to
leave the room, swearing that he would be satisfied one
way or another, when I begged the landlord would
introduce me to a stranger of so much charity as he
described. With this he complied, showing in a gentle-
man who seemed to be about thirty, dressed in clothes
that once were laced. His person was well formed,
and his face marked with the lines of thinking. He
had something short and dry in his address, and seemed
not to understand ceremony, or to despise it. Upon
the landlord's leaving the room, I could not avoid ex-
pressing my concern to the stranger at seeing a gentle-
man in such circumstances, and offered him my purse
to satisfy the present demand. " I take it with all my
heart, Sir," replied he, " and am glad that a late oversight
in giving what money I had about me has shown me
there are still some men like you. I must, however,
previously entreat being informed of the name and
residence of my benefactor, in order to repay him as
soon as possible." In this I satisfied him fully, not
only mentioning my name and late misfortunes, but
A MIGRATION
25
the place to which I was going to remove. " This,"
cried he, " happens still more luckily than I hoped for,
as I am going the same way myself, having been
detained here two days by the floods, which I hope by
to-morrow will be found passable." I testified the
pleasure I should have in his company, and my wife
and daughters joining in entreaty, he was prevailed
upon to stay supper. The stranger's conversation, which
was at once pleasing and instructive, induced me to
wish for a continuance of it ; but it was now high time
to retire and take refreshment against the fatigues of
the following day.
26
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
The next morning we all set forward together : my
family on horseback, while Mr. Burchell, our new com-
panion, walked along the footpath by the road-side,
observing with' a smile that, as we were ill mounted, he
would be too generous to attempt leaving us behind.
As the floods were not yet subsided, we were obliged
to hire a guide, who trotted on before, Mr. Burchell
and I bringing up the rear. We lightened the fatigues of
the road with- philosophical disputes, which he seemed
to understand perfectly. But what surprised me most
was, that though he was a money borrower, he defended
his opinions with as much obstinacy as if he had been
my patron. He now and then also informed me to
whom the different seats belonged that lay in our view
as we travelled the road. " That," cried he, pointing
to a very magnificent house which stood at some dis-
tance, " belongs to Mr. Thornhill, a young gentleman
who enjoys a large fortune, though entirely dependent
on the will of his uncle, Sir William Thornhill, a
in A MIGRATION 27
gentleman who, content with a little himself, permits
his nephew to enjoy the rest, and chiefly resides in
town." — " What ! " cried I, " is my young landlord then
the nephew of a man, whose virtues, generosity, and
singularities are so universally known ? I have heard
Sir William Thornhill represented as one of the most
generous yet whimsical men in the kingdom ; a man
of consummate benevolence." — " Something, perhaps,
too much so/ replied Mr. Burchell ; " at least he carried
benevolence to an excess when young ; for his passions
were then strong, and as they were all upon the side
of virtue they led it up to a romantic extreme. He
early began to aim at the qualifications of the soldier
and the scholar : was soon distinguished in the army,
and had some reputation among men of learning. Adu-
lation ever follows the ambitious ; for such alone receive
most pleasure from flattery. He was surrounded with
crowds, who showed him only one side of their character ;
so that he began to lose a regard for private interest
in universal sympathy. He loved all mankind ; for
fortune prevented him from knowing that there were
rascals. Physicians tell us of a disorder, in which the
whole body is so exquisitely sensible that the slightest
touch gives pain : what some have thus suffered in
their persons, this gentleman felt in his mind : the
slightest distress, whether real or fictitious, touched him
to the quick, and his soul laboured under a sickly
sensibility of the miseries of others. Thus disposed to
relieve, it will be easily conjectured he found numbers
disposed to solicit ; his profusions began to impair his
fortune, but not his good -nature — that, indeed, was
seen to increase as the other seemed to decay : he grew
improvident as he grew poor ; and though he talked
28 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
like a man of sense, his actions were those of a fool.
Still, however, being surrounded with importunity, and
no longer able to satisfy every request that was made
him, instead of money he gave promises. They were
all he had to bestow, and he had not resolution enough
to give any man pain by a denial. By this he drew
round him crowds of dependants, whom he was sure to
disappoint, yet wished to relieve. These hung upon
him for a time, and left him with merited reproaches
and contempt. But, in proportion as he became con-
temptible to others, he became despicable to himself.
His mind had leaned upon their adulation, and, that^*
support taken away, he could find no pleasure in the
applause of his heart, which he had never learnt to
■•reverence. The world now began to wear a different
aspect : the flattery of his friends began to dwindle
into simple approbation ; approbation soon took the
more friendly form of advice ; and advice, when re-
jected, produced their reproaches. He now therefore
found that such friends as benefits had gathered round
him, were little estimable : he now found that a man's
own heart must be ever given to gain that of another. I
now found that — that— I forget what I was going to
observe : in short, Sir, he resolved to respect himself,
and laid down a plan of restoring his falling fortune.
For this purpose, in his own whimsical manner, he
travelled through Europe on foot ; and now, though
he has scarce attained the age of thirty, his circumstances
are more affluent than ever. At present, his bounties
are more rational and moderate than before ; but
still he preserves the character of an humorist, and finds
most pleasure in eccentric virtues."
My attention was so much taken up by Mr.
A MIGRATION
29
Burchell's account, that I scarce looked forward as
he went along, till we were alarmed by the cries of
my family ; when, turning, I perceived my youngest
daughter in the midst of a rapid stream, thrown from
her horse, and struggling with the torrent. She had
sunk twice, nor was it in my power to disengage myself
in time to bring her relief. My sensations were even
too violent to permit my attempting her rescue : she
must have certainly perished had not my companion,
perceiving her danger, instantly plunged in to her relief,
and, with some difficulty, brought her in safety to the
opposite shore. By taking the current a little farther
up, the rest of the family got safely over, where we
had an opportunity of joining our acknowledgments to
hers. Her gratitude may be more readily imagined
than described : she* thanked her deliverer more with
looks than with words, and continued to lean upon his
arm, as if still willing to receive assistance. My wife
also hoped one day to have the pleasure of returning
his kindness at her own house. Thus, after we were
30
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
refreshed at the next inn, and had dined together, as
Mr. Burchell was going to a different part of the
country, he took leave, and we pursued our journey ;
my wife observing, as he went, that she liked him
extremely, and protesting, that if he had birth and
fortune to entitle him to match into such a family as
ours, she knew no man she would sooner fix upon. I
could not but smile to hear her talk in this lofty strain ;
but I was never much displeased with those harmless
delusions that tend to make us more happy.
/ tcr IV-
| c7? Jrogffrfiafeven ihc fiurn£(esT Jbrtune mou^rant
J&ppcnoss, w6cc6. depends, not on (urcamstanc^ , 6ut~
Constitution.
RC place of our retreat was in a little neigh-
bourhood, consisting of farmers, who tilled their own
grounds, and were equal strangers to opulence arid
poverty. As they had almost all the conveniences of
life within themselves, they seldom visited towns or cities
in search of superfluity. Remote from the polite, they
still retained the primeval simplicity of manners ; and,
frugal by habit, they scarce knew that temperance was
a virtue. They wrought with cheerfulness on days of
labour ; but observed festivals as intervals of idleness
and pleasure. They kept up the Christmas carol, sent
true love knots on Valentine morning, ate pancakes on
Shrovetide, showed their wit on the first of April, and
religiously cracked nuts on Michaelmas eve. Being
apprised of our approach," the whole neighbourhood
came out to meet their minister, dressed in their finest
clothes, and preceded by a pipe and tabor. A feast
32
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
also was provided for our reception, at which we sat
cheerfully down ; and what the conversation wan tec
wit was made up in laughter.
Our little habitation was situated at the foot of a
sloping ' hill, sheltered with a beautiful underwood
behind, and a prattling river before ; on one side a
meadow, on the other a green. My farm consisted
of about twenty acres of excellent land, having
an hundred pounds for my predecessor's good-wilf.
Nothing could exceed the neatness of my
enclosures, the elms and hedge-rows appearing wit]
inexpressible beauty. My house consisted of but one
story, and was covered with thatch, which gave i
air of great snugness ; the walls, on the inside, were
nicely whitewashed, and my daughters undertook to
adorn them with pictures of their own desi^
Though the same room served us for parlour
kitchen, that only made it the warmer. Besides, as 1
was kept with the utmost neatness, the dishes, plated,
HUMBLEST FORTUNE MAY GRANT HAPPINESS
33
I coppers being well scoured, and all disposed in
ght rows on the shelves, the eye was agreeably re-
ted, and did not want richer furniture. There were
hrce other apartments ; one for my wife and me,
nother for our two daughters within our own, and the
Jfcird, with two beds, for the rest of the children.
[ The little republic to wfyqh I gave laws, was
regulated in the following manner : By sunrise we all ^
sembled in our common apartment, the fire being
piously kindled by the servant. After we had
luted each other with proper ceremony — for I always
>ught fit to keep up some mechanical forms of good
reeding, without which freedom ever destroys friend-
3: — we all bent in gratitude to that Being who
us another day. This duty being performed,
^ son and I went tfb pursue our usual industry
toad, while my wife and daughters employed them-
[ves in providing breakfast, which was always ready
^certain time. I allowed half an hour for this
1, and an hour for dinner ; which time was taken
> n innocent mirth between my wife and daughters,
D «
S(
34
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
and in philosophical arguments between my son ^
me.
As we rose with the sun, so we never pursued our
labours after it was gone down, but returned home,' to
the expecting family, where smiling looks, a neat
hearth, and pleasant fire, were prepared for our recep-
tion. Nor were we without guests : sometimes farmer
Flamborough, our talkative neighbour, and often y^the
blind piper, would pay us a visit, and taste our goose-
berry wine, for the making of which we had lost neither
the receipt nor the reputation. These harmless people
had several ways of being good company ; while one
played, the other would sing some soothing ballad, —
Johnny Armstrong's Last Good-night, or the Cruelty of
HUMBLEST FORTUNE MAY GRANT HAPPINESS
35
Barbara Allen. The night was concluded in the
manner we began the morning, my youngest boys being
appointed to read the lessons of the day ; and he that
read loudest, distinctest, and best, was to have a half-
penny on Sunday to put into the poor's box.
When Sunday came, it was indeed a day of finery,
which all my sumptuary edicts could not restrain.
of fa da y>
How well soever I fancied my lectures against pride
had conquered the vanity of my daughters, yet I still
found them secretly attached to all their former finery :
they still loved laces, ribands, bugles, and catgut ; my
wife herself retained a passion for her crimson paduasoy,
because I formerly happened to say it became her, .
The first Sunday, in particular, their behaviour
served to mortify me. I had desired my girls the
36
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
preceding night to be dressed early the next day ; for
I always loved to be at church a good while before the
rest of the congregation. They punctually obeyed my
directions; but when we were to assemble in the
morning at breakfast, down came my wife and
daughters, dressed out in all their former splendour ;
\\ •„ ' ••■ ^ \\ ^ \\\ vv v
their hair plastered up with pomatum, their faces
patched to taste, their trains bundled up in a heap
behind, and rustling at every motion. I could not
help smiling at their vanity, particularly that of my
wife, from whom I expected more discretion. In this
^.exigence, therefore, my only resource was to order my
* son, with an important air, to call our coach. The
girls were amazed at the command ; but I repeated it
iv HUMBLEST FORTUNE MAY GRANT HAPPINESS
37
with more solemnity than before. " Surely, my dear,
you jest," cried my wife ; " we can walk it perfectly
well : we want no coach to
carry us now." — "You mis-
take, child," returned I, "we
do want a coach ; for if we
walk to church in this trim,
the very children in the parish
will hoot after us." — " In-
deed," replied my wife, " I
always imagined that my
Charles was fond of seeing
his children neat and hand-
some about him." — " You
may be as neat as you
please," interrupted I, " and '
I shall love you the better
for it ; but all this is not
neatness, but frippery. These
rufflings, and pinkings, and
patchings will only make usj
hated by all the wives of
our neighbours. No, my
children," continued I, more
gravely, " those gowns may
be altered into something of a plainer cut ; for finery is
very unbecoming in us, who want the means of decency.
I do not know whether such flouncing and shredding
is becoming even in the rich, if we consider, upon a
moderate calculation, that the nakedness of the i
world might be clothed from the trimmings of the
This remonstrance had the proper effect : they went
with great composure, that very instant, to change their
£0<#v an. cmkortacni
' cti-v ''
indigent 4-*
;he vain." I
3*
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
dress ; and the next day I had the satisfaction of
finding my daughters, at their own request, employed
in cutting up their trains into Sunday waistcoats for
Dick and Bill, the two little ones ; and, what was still
more satisfactory, the gowns seemed improved by this
curtailing.
\IK* iW<r ( ^\A~>tf<ffai { f,f/ri,r)ijy---S\ l C,
Chapter j:
cdtczcf. Wfat we ftCace most 'Jfepe* uftort, greri-
§roc((y proves most jcctaC
J a small distance from the house, my
predecessor had made a seat, over-
\*m£—22 s h ac iowed by a hedge of hawthorn
and honeysuckle. Here, when ' the weather was fine,
and our labour soon finished, we usually sat together,
to enjoy an extensive landscape in the calm of the
evening. Here, too, we drank tea, which now was
become an occasional banquet ; and, as we had it but
seldom, it diffused a new joy, the preparations for it
being made with no small share of bustle and
ceremony. On these occasions, our two little ones
always read for us, and they were regularly served
after we had done. Sometimes, to give a variety to
our amusements, the girls sang to the guitar ; and
while they thus formed a little concert, my wife and I
would stroll down the sloping field, that was em-
bellished with blue -bells and centaury, talk of our
children with rapture, and enjoy the breeze that
wafted both health and harmony.
40
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
In this manner we began to find that every situation
in life may bring its own peculiar pleasures : every
morning waked us to a repetition of toil ; but the
, evening repaid it with vacant hilarity.
It was about the beginning of autumn, on a holiday
A NEW ACQUAINTANCE INTRODUCED
4i
— for I kept such as intervals of relaxation from
labour — that I had drawn out my family to our usual
place of amusement, and our young musicians began
their usual concert. As we were thus engaged, we
saw a stag bound nimbly by, within about twenty paces
of where we were sitting, and by its panting it seemed
pressed by the hunters. We had not much time to
reflect upon the poor animal's distress, when we per-
ceived the dogs and horsemen come sweeping along at
some distance behind, and making the very path it
had taken. I was instantly for returning in with my
family ; but either curiosity, or surprise, or some more
hidden motive, held my wife and daughters to their
seats. The huntsman who rode foremost passed us
with great swiftness, followed by four or five persons
more, who seemed in equal haste. At last, a young
gentleman of more genteel appearance than the rest
came forward, and for a while regarding us, instead of
pursuing the chase, stopped short, and giving his horse
42
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
to a servant who attended, approached us with a care-
less superior air. He seemed to want no introduction,
but was going to salute my daughters as one certain of
a kind reception ; but they had early learnt the lesson
Cu'dU) d <?<t*« (ejc JVLpQricrr as**
of looking presumption out of countenance. Upon
which he let us know that his name was Thornhill, and
that he was owner of the estate that lay for some
extent round us. He again therefore offered to salute
the female part of the family, and such was the power
of fortune and fine clothes, that he found no second
A NEW ACQUAINTANCE INTRODUCED
43
repulse. As his address, though confident, was easy,
we soon became more familiar ; and, perceiving musical
instruments lying near, he begged to be favoured with
a song. As I did not approve of such disproportioned
acquaintances, I winked upon my daughters in order to
prevent their compliance ; but my hint was counter-
acted by one from their mother ; so that, with a
cheerful air, they gave us a favourite song of Dryden's.
'^m^^"" jij-
*'¥,... „ ' " • ' \ W, *' ( * XuLSX ska WhnW vSHk a
Mr. Thornhill seemed highly delighted with their
performance and choice, and then took up the guitar
himself. He played but very indifferently ; however,
my eldest daughter repaid his former applause with
interest, and assured him that his tones were louder
than even those of her master. At this compliment
he bowed, which she returned with a curtsey . He
praised her taste, and she commended his under-
standing ; an age could not have made them better
44
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
acquainted : while the fond mother too, equally happy,
insisted upon her landlord's stepping in, and tasting a
glass of her gooseberry. The whole family seemed
earnest to please him : my girls attempted to enter-
tain him with topics they thought most modern ; while
Moses, on the contrary, gave him a question or two
from the ancients, for which he had the satisfaction of
being laughed at. My little ones were no less busy,
and fondly stuck close to the stranger. All my
endeavours could scarce keep their dirty fingers from
handling and tarnishing the lace on his clothes, and
lifting up the flaps of his pocket-holes, to see what was
v A NEW ACQUAINTANCE INTRODUCED 45
there. At the approach of evening he took leave ;
but not till he had requested permission to renew his
visit, which, as he was our landlord, we most readily
agreed to.
As soon as he was gone, my wife called a council
on the conduct of the day. She was of opinion, that
it was a most fortunate hit ; for she had known
even stranger things than that brought to bear. She
hoped again to see the day in which we might hold up
our heads with the best of them ; and concluded, she
protested she could see no reason why the two Miss
Wrinklers should marry great fortunes, and her children
get none. As this last argument was directed to me,
I protested I could see no reason for it neither, nor
why Mr. Simpkins got the ten thousand pound prize in
the lottery, and we sat down with a blank. " I protest,
Charles," cried my wife, "this is the way you always
damp my girls and me when we are in spirits. Tell
me, Sophy, my dear, what do you think of our new
visitor? Don't you think he seemed to be good-
natured ? " — " Immensely so, indeed, mamma," replied
she : " I think he has a great deal to say upon every-
thing, and is never at a loss ; and the more trifling the
subject, the more he has to say." — " Yes," cried Olivia,
"he is well enough for a man ; but, for my own'part,^
I don't much like him, he is so extremely impudent
and familiar ; but on the guitar he is shocking."
These two last speeches I interpreted by contraries.
I found by this, that Sophia internally despised, as
much as Olivia secretly admired him. " Whatever may
be your opinions of him, my- children," cried I, " to
confess the truth, he has not prepossessed me in his
favour. Disproportioned friendships ever terminate in
4 6
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
disgust ; and I thought, notwithstanding all his ease,
that he seemed perfectly sensible of the distance
between us. Let us keep to companions of our own
rank. There is no character more contemptible than
a man that is a fortune-hunter ; anji I can see no
reason why fortune-hunting women should not be con-
temptible too. Thus, at best, we shall be contemptible
if his views are honourable ; but if they be otherwise!
— I should shudder but* to think of that. It is true, I
have no apprehensions from the conduct of my children ,;
but I think there are some from his character." I
would have proceeded, but for the interruption of a
servant from the Squire, who, with his compliments,
sent us a side of venison, and a promise to dine with
us some days after. This well-timed present pleaded
more powerfully in his favour than anything I had to
say could obviate. I therefore continued silent, satisfied
with just having pointed out danger, and leaving it to
their own discretion to avoid it. That virtue which
requires to be ever guarded is scarce worth the sentinel.
Chapter VI
Jfc d^fifiincss of a (oari&y JcreftcCe-
>cT we carried on the former dispute with
some degree of warmth, in order to accommodate
matters, it was universally agreed that we should have
a part of the venison for supper ; and the girls under-
took .the task with alacrity. " I am sorry," cried I,
u that we have no neighbour or stranger to take part
in this good cheer : feasts of this kind acquire a double
relish from hospitality." — " Bless me," cried my wife,
" here comes our good friend Mr. Burchell, that saved
our Sophia, and that run you down fairly in the argu-
ment." — " tSonfute me in argument, child ! " cried I.
" You mistake there, my dear ; I believe there are but
. few that can do that : I never dispute your abilities at
making a goos^pier-ancLI beg you'll leave argument
to me." y&s\ spoke, poor Mr. Burchell entered the
house,^and was welcomed by the family, who shook
him heartily by the hand, while little Dick officiously
reached him a chair.
I was pleased with the poor man's friendship for
48
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
:
two reasons : because I knew that he wanted mine, and
I knew him to be friendly as far as he was able,
was known in our neighbourhood by the character of
the poor gentleman, that would do no good when he
was young, though he was not yet thirty. He would
at intervals talk with great good sense ; but, in general,
he . was fondest] c
company of cihik
whom he used f to call
harmless little men. He
was famous, I found, for
singing them ballads,
and telling them stories,
and seldom went out
without something in his
pockets for then
piece of gingerbread, or
an halfpenny whistle.
He generally c;
a few days into our neighbourhood once a ye*
lived upon the neighbours' hospitality. He sat
supper among us, and my wife was not sparing
gooseberry wine. The tale went round ; he sung
songs, and gave the children the story of the I
Beverland, with the history of Patient Grissel, the i
tures of Catskin, and then Fair Rosamond's* ]
Our cock, which always crew at eleven, now told
was time for repose ; but an unforeseen difficulty sta
about lodging the stranger — all our beds were <i
taken up, and it was too late to send him to the
alehouse. In this dilemma, little Dick offered him his
part of the bed, if his brother Moses would let hin
with him : " And I," cried Bill, " will givQ Mr. pu
HAPPINESS OF A COUNTRY FIRESIDE
49
my .part, if my sisters will take me to theirs." — " Well
done, my good children," cried I, " hospitality is one of
the first Christian duties. The beast retires to its shelter,
and the bird flies to its nest ; but helpless man can only
I refuge from his fellow -creature. The greatest
fy'stoy of Jatievti <fa m (^
anger in this world was He that came to save it.
i never had a house, as if willing to see what hos-
pitality was left remaining among us. Deborah, my
ear 4 ," cried I to my wife, "give those boys a lump of
^ar each ; and let Dick's be the largest, because he
Oke first."
t'n the morning early I called out my whole family
E
50 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
to help at saving an aftergrowth of hay, and our guest
offering his assistance,, he was accepted among 'the
number. Our labours went on lightly ; we turned the
swath to the wind. I went foremost, and the rest
followed in due succession. I could not avoid, however,
observing the assiduity of Mr. Burchell in assisting my
daughter Sophia in her part of the task. When
had finished his own, he would join in hers, and enter
into a close conversation ; but I had too good, an
opinion of Sophia's understanding, and was too well
convinced of her ambition, to be under any uneasiness
from a man of broken fortune. When we \yere
finished for the day, Mr. Burchell was invited as on the
HAPPINESS OF A COUNTRY FIRESIDE
5*
night before, but he refused, as he was to lie that night
at a neighbour's, to whose child he was carrying a
whistle. When gone, our conversation at supper
Caorryinf ex ojsQt(e "
turned upon our late unfortunate guest. "What a
strong instance," said I, " is that poor man of the
miseries attending a youth of levity and extravagance.
He by no means wants sense, which only serves to
aggravate his former folly. Poor forlorn creature !
52 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
where are now the revellers, the flatterers, that he could
once inspire and command 1/ Gone, perhaps, to attend
the bagnio pander, grown rich by. his extravagance.
They once praised him, and now they applaud the
pander : their former raptures at his wit are now
converted into sarcasms at his folly : he is poor, and
perhaps deserves poverty ; . for he has neither the
ambition to be independent, nor the skill to be useful."
Prompted perhaps by some secret reasons, I delivered
this observation with too much acrimony, which my
Sophia gently reproved. " Whatsoever his former
conduct may have been, papa, his circumstances should
exempt him from censure now. His present indigence
is a sufficient punishment for former folly ; and I have
heard my papa himself say, that we should never strike
one unnecessary blow at a victim, over whom Providence
holds the scourge of its resentment." — " You are
right, Sqphy," cried my son Moses ; " and one of the
ancients finely represents so malicious a conduct, by the
attempts of a rustic to flay Marsyas, whose skin, the
fable tells us, had been wholly stripped off by another.
Besides, I don't know if this poor man's situation be so
bad as my father would represent it. We are not to
judge of the feelings of others by what we might feel
in their place. However dark the habitation of the
mole to our eyes, yet the animal itself finds the apart-
ment sufficiently lightsome. And, to confess a truth,
this man's mind seems fitted to his station ; for I never
heard any one more sprightly than he was to-day,
when he conversed with you." — This was said without,
the least design ; however, it excited a blush, which
she strove to cover by an affected laugh, assuring him
that she scarce took any notice of what he said to
HAPPINESS OF A COUNTRY FIRESIDE
53
her, but that she believed he might once have been a
very fine gentleman. The readiness with which she
undertook to vindicate herself, and her blushing, were
x //
J fa <uaS s a{ d. coX/xoulr tfa ^astdeS^rC
symptoms I did not internally approve ; but I repressed
my suspicions.
As we expected our landlord the next day, my wife
went to make the venison pasty. Moses sat reading,
while I taught the little ones. My, daughters seemed
equally busy with the rest ; and I observed them for a
good while cooking something over the fire. I at first
supposed they were assisting their mother, but little
54
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
CHAP. VI
Dick informed me, in a whisper, that they were making
a wash for the face; Washes of all kinds I had a
natural antipathy to ; for I knew that, instead of
mending the complexion, they spoil it. I therefore
approached my chair by sly degrees to the fire, and
grasping the poker, as if it wanted mending, seemingly
by accident overturned the whole composition, and it
was too late to begin another.
vAO /
1 J J (yy acc(c(Qnt.
L*?£
a&v
Oia/itt
~er VII,
'\
^J% Jckvn ZOit c&rcritiecC- 3fta c&CCest 3k(fcws j
may (earn to 6q comccaCjdr a JYcghtcrDboo.
\[^Jf\ the morning arrived oni-
which we were to enter-
tain our young landlord, it may be easily supposed what
provisions were exhausted to make an appearance. It
may also be conjectured that my wife and daughters
expanded their gayest plumage on this occasion. Mr.
Thornhill came with a couple of friends, his chaplain
and feeder. The servants, who were numerous, he
politely ordered to the next alehouse : but my wife,
in the triumph of her heart, insisted on entertaining
them all ; for which, by the by, our family was pinched,
for three weeks after. As Mr. Burchell had hinted to
us the day before, that he was making some proposals
of marriage to Miss Wilmot, my son George's former
mistress, this a good deal damped the heartiness of his
reception : but accident in some measure relieved our
embarrassment ; for one of the company happening to
mention her name, Mr. Thornhill observed with an oath,
that he never knew anything more absurd than calling
such a fright a beauty ; " For, strike me ugly," con-
5*
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
tinued he, " if I should not find as much pleasure in
choosing my mistress by the information of a lamp
under the clock of St. Dunstan's." At this he laughed,
and so did we : the jests of the rich are ever successful.
Olivia, too, could not avoid whispering, loud enough to
be heard, that he had an infinite fund of humour.
After dinner, I began with my usual toast, the
Church : for this I was thanked by the chaplain, as he
said the Church was the only mistress of his affections.
" Come, tell us honestly, Frank," said the Squire, with
his usual archness, " suppose the Church, your present
mistress, dressed in lawn sleeves, on one hand, and
Miss Sophia, with no lawn about her, on the other,
which would you be for ? " — " For both, to be sure," cried
the chaplain. " Right, Frank," cried the Squire ; " for
VII
A TOWN WIT DESCRIBED
57
may this glass suffocate me, but a fine girl is worth all
the priestcraft in the creation ! For what are tithes
and tricks but an imposition, all a confounded im-
posture, and I can prove it." — " I wish you would,"
cried my son Moses ; " and I think," continued he,
" that I should be able to answer you." — " Very well,
Sir," cried the Squire, who immediately smoked him,
ComAccrcy
and winked on the rest of the company to prepare us
for the sport ; "if you are for a cool argument upon
that subject, I am ready to accept the challenge. And,
first, whether are you for managing it analogically or
dialogically ? " — " I am for managing it rationally,"
cried Moses, quite happy at being permitted to dispute.
" Good again," cried the Squire ; " and, firstly, of the
first, I hope you'll not deny, that whatever is, is. If
58 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
you don't grant me that, I can go no further." — " Why/'
replied Moses, " I think I may grant that ; and make
the best of it." — " I hope, too," returned the other, " you'll
grant that a part is less than the whole." — " I grant*
that too," cried Moses ; " it is but just and reasonable."
— " I hope," cried the Squire, " you will not deny, that
the two angles of a triangle are equal to two right
ones." — " Nothing can be plainer," returned t'other, and
looked round with his usual importance. — " Very well,"
cried the Squire, speaking very quick, lt the premisses
being thus settled, I proceed to observe, that the con-
catenation of self-existences, proceeding in a reciprocal
duplicate ratio, naturally produce a problematical
dialogism, which, in some measure, proves that the
essence of spirituality may be referred to the second
predicable." — " Hold, hold ! " cried the other, " I deny
that : do you think that I can thus tamely submit to
such heterodox doctrines ? " — " What ! " replied the
Squire, as if in a passion, "not submit! * Answer, me
one plain question : Do you think Aristotle right when
he says that relatives are related ? " — " Undoubtedly,"
replied the other. — " If so, then," cried the Squire,
" answer me directly to what I propose : Whether do
you judge the analytical investigation of the first part
of my enthymem deficient secundum quoad, or quoad
minus ; and give me your reasons — give me your
reasons, I say, directly." — " I protest," cried Moses, " I
don't rightly comprehend the force of your reasoning ;
but if it be reduced to one simple proposition, I fancy
it may then have an answer." — " Oh, Sir," cried the
Squire, " I am your most humble servant ; I find you
want me to furnish you with argument and intellects
too. No, sir, there I protest you are too hard for me."
A TOWN WIT DESCRIBED
59
This effectually raised the laugh against poor Moses,
who sat the only dismal figure in a group of merry
faces ; nor did he offer a single syllable more during
the whole entertainment.
But though all this gave me no pleasure, it had a
very different effect upon Olivia, who mistook it for
humour, though but a mere act of the memory. She
thought him, therefore, a very fine gentleman ; and
such as consider what powerful ingredients a good figure,
]tt)Wlj6i
fine clothes, and fortune are in that character, will easily
forgive her. Mr. Thornhill, notwithstanding his real
ignorance, talked with ease, and could expatiate upon
the common topics of conversation with fluency. It is
not surprising then, that such talents should win the
affections of a girl who by education was taught to
rvalue an appearance in herself, and consequently to set
a value upon it in another.
Upon his departure, we again entered into a debate
upon the merits of our young landlord. As he directed
60 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
his looks and conversation to Olivia, it was no longer
doubted but that she was the object that induced him to
be our visitor. Nor did she seem to be much dis-
pleased at the innocent raillery of her brother and
sister upon this occasion. Even Deborah herself seemed
to share the glory of the day, and exulted in her
daughter's victory as if it were her own. " And now,
my dear," cried she to me, " I'll fairly own, that it was
I that instructed my girls to encourage our landlord's
addresses. I had always some ambition, and you now
see that I was right ; for who knows how this may
end?" — " Ay, who knows that indeed!" answered I,
with a groan : " for my part, I don't much like it ; and
I could have been better pleased with one that was
poor and honest, than this fine gentleman with his for-
tune and infidelity ; for depend on't, if he be what I
suspect him, no freethinker shall ever have a child of
mine."
" Sure, father," cried Moses, " you are too severe in
this ; for Heaven will never arraign him for what he
thinks, but for what he does. Every man has a thousand
vicious thoughts, which arise without his power to
suppress. Thinking freely of religion may be involuntary
with this gentleman ; so that, allowing his sentiments
to be wrong, yet, as he is purely passive in his assent,
he is no more to be blamed for his errors than the
governor of a city without walls for the shelter he is
obliged to afford an invading enemy."
" True, my son," cried I ; " but if the governor invites
the enemy there, he is justly culpable. And such is
always the case with those who embrace error. The
vice does not lie in assenting to the proofs they see ;
but in being blind to many of the proofs that offer. ' So
vii A TOWN WIT DESCRIBED 61
that, though our erroneous opinions be involuntary when
formed, yet as we have been wilfully corrupt, or very
negligent in forming them, we deserve punishment for
our vice, or contempt for our folly."
My wife now kept up the conversation, though not
the argument ; she observed that several very prudent
men of our acquaintance were freethinkers, and made
very good husbands ; and she knew some sensible girls
that had skill enough to make converts of their spouses.
"And who knows, my dear," continued she, "what
Olivia may be able to do : the girl has a great deal to
say upon every subject, and, to my knowledge, is very
well skilled in controversy."
"Why, my dear, what controversy can she have
read ? " cried I. " It does not occur to me that I ever
put such books into her hands : you certainly overrate
her merit." — " Indeed, papa," replied Olivia, " she does
not ; I have read a great deal of controversy. I have
read the disputes between Thwackum and Square ; the
controversy between Robinson Crusoe aiTth-Eriday the
savage ; and I am now employed in reading the con-
troversy in Religious Courtship." — "Very well," cried
I, " that's a good girl ; I find you are perfectly qualified
for making converts, and so go help your mother to
make the gooseberry pie."
Cfxa/iter ViTL,
y/fffe Dm Jlmac r cofdcfi prom&& 6U(e good 3brtuj$.
yet may 6e fircxfacttve <fmuc/i*
ie next morning we were again visited
by Mr. Burchell, though I began, for
certain reasons, to be displeased with
the frequency of his return ; but I could not refuse
him my company and fireside. It is true, his labour
more than requited his entertainment ; for he wrought
among us with vigour, and, either in the meadow or
at the hay -rick, put himself foremost. Besides, he
had always something amusing to say that lessened
our toil, and was at once so out of the way, and yet
so sensible, that I loved, laughed at, and pitied him.
My only dislike arose from an attachment he dis-
covered to my daughter. He would, in a jesting
manner, call her his little mistress, and when he bought
each of the girls a set of ribands, hers was the finest.
I knew not how, but he every day seemed to become
more amiable, his wit to improve, and his simplicity to
assume the superior airs of wisdom.
Our family dined in the field, and we sat, or rather
reclined, round a temperate repast, our cloth spread
upon the hay, while Mr. Burchell gave cheerfulness
chap, viii AMOUR WHICH PROMISES LITTLE GOOD
63
j|;o thief feast. To heighten our satisfaction, two black-
birds answered each other from opposite hedges, the
familiar redbreast came and pecked the crumbs from
our hands, and every sound seemed but the echo of
tranquillity. " I- never sit thus " said Sophia, " but I
think of the two lovers so sweetly described by Mr.
Gay, who were struck dead in each other's arms.
There is something so pathetic in the description,
that I have read it an hundred times with new rap-
ture." — " In my opinion," cried my son, " the finest
strokes in that description are much below those in the
Acis and Galatea of Ovid. The Roman poet under-
stands the use of contrast better ; and upon that figure,
artfully managed, all strength in the pathetic depends."
LI
6 4 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
— "It is remarkable," cried Mr. Burchell, "that botrl
the poets you mention have equally contributed to
introduce a false taste into their respective countries,
by loading all their lines with epithet. Men of little
genius found them most easily imitated in their defects ;
and English poetry, like that in the latter empire of
Rome, is nothing at present but a combination of
luxuriant images, without plot or connection — ra strir
of epithets that improve the sound without carrying on
the sense. But perhaps, Madam, while I thus repre-
hend others, you'll think it just that I should \
them an opportunity to retaliate ; and, indeed, I
made this remark only to have an opportunity of
introducing to the company a ballad which, whatever
be its other defects, is, I think, at least free from those
I have mentioned."
A BALLAD.
" Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way
To where yon taper cheers the vale
With hospitable ray.
u For here forlorn and lost I tread,
With fainting steps and slow,
Where wilds, immeasurably spread,
Seem length'ning as I go."
" Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries,
"To tempt the dangerous gloom ;
For yonder faithless phantom flies
To lure thee to thy doom.
" Here to the houseless child of want
My door is open still ;
And, though my portion is but scant,
I give it with good will.
AMOUR WHICH PROMISES LITTLE GOOD 65
" Then turn to-night, and freely share
Whate'er my cell bestows ;
My rushy couch and frugal fare,
My blessing and repose.
" No flocks that range the valley free
To slaughter I condemn ;
Taught by that Power that pities me,
I learn to pity them :
" But from the mountain's grassy side
A guiltless feast I bring ;
' A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied,
And water from the spring.
" Then, pilgrim, turn ; thy cares forego ;
All earth-born cares are wrong :
Man wants but little here below,""^/
Nor wants that little long."
Soft as the dew from heaven descends
His gentle accents fell :
The modest stranger lowly bends,
And follows to the cell.
Far in a wilderness obscure
The lonely mansion lay,
A refuge to the neighbouring poor,
And strangers led astray.
No stores beneath its humble thatch
Required a master's care ;
The wicket, opening with a latch,
Received the harmless pair.
And now, when busy crowds retire
To take their evening rest,
The Hermit trimm'd his little fire,
And cheer'd his pensive guest :
And spread his vegetable store,
And gaily press'd, and smiled ;
And, skill'd in legendary lore,
The lingering hours beguiled.
F
66 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
Around, in sympathetic mirth,
Its tricks the kitten tries,
The cricket chirrups on the hearth,
The crackling fagot flies.
But nothing could a charm impart
To soothe the stranger's woe ;
For grief was heavy at his heart,
And tears began to flow.
His rising cares the Hermit spied,
With answering care oppress'd :
And " Whence, unhappy youth," he cried,
" The sorrows of thy breast ?
" From better habitations spurn'd,
Reluctant dost thou rove ?
Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd,
Or unregarded love ?
"Alas ! the joys that fortune brings •
Are trifling, and decay ;
And those who prize the paltry things,
More trifling still than theyf
" And what is friendship but a name,
A charm that lulls to sleep ;
A shade that follows wealth or fame,
But leaves the wretch to weep ?
"And love is still an emptier sound,
The modern fair one's jest ;
On earth unseen, or only found
To warm the turtle's nest.
" For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush.
And spurn the sex," he said ;
But while he spoke, a rising blush
His love-lorn guest betray'd.
Surprised he sees new beauties rise,
Swift mantling to the view ;
Like colours o'er the morning skies,
As bright, as transient too.
cha?.
*
^
AMOUR WHICH PROMISES LITTLE GOOD 67
The bashful look, the rising breast,
Alternate spread alarms ;
The lovely stranger stands confess'd
A maid in all her charms.
And, " Ah ! forgive a stranger rude —
A wretch forlorn," she cried ;
"Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude
Where Heaven and you reside.
" But let a maid thy pity share,
Whom love has taught to stray ;
Who seeks for rest, but finds despair
Companion of her way.
" My father lived beside the Tyne,
A wealthy lord was he ;
And all his wealth was mark'd as mine,
He had but only me.
" To win me from his tender arms
Unnumber'd suitors came,
Who praised me for imputed charms,
And felt, or feign'd, a flame.
"Each hour a mercenary crowd
With richest proffers strove ;
Amongst the rest, young Edwin bow'd,
But never talk'd of love.
; In humble, simple habit clad,
No wealth nor power had he ;
Wisdom and worth were all he had,
But these were all to me.
"And when, beside me in the dale,
He caroll'd lays of love,
His breath lent fragrance to the gale,
And music to the grove.
" The blossom opening to the day, f
The dews of heaven refined,
Could nought of purity display
To emulate his mind.
68 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
" The dew, the blossom on the tree,
With charms inconstant shine :
Their charms were his, but, woe to me,
Their constancy was mine.
" For still I tried each fickle art,
Importunate and vain ;
And, while his passion touched my heart,
I triumph'd in his pain :
" Till, quite dejected with my scorn,
He left me to my pride ;
And sought a solitude forlorn,
In secret, where he died.
" But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,
And well my life shall pay ;
I'll seek the solitude he sought,
And stretch me where he lay.
"And there, forlorn, despairing, hid,
I'll lay me down and die ;
'Twas so for me that Edwin did,
And so for him will I."
" Forbid it, Heaven ! " the Hermit cried,
And clasp'd her to his breast :
• The wondering fair one turn'd to chide —
'Twas Edwin's self that pressed !
" Turn, Angelina, ever dear,
My charmer, turn to see
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,
Restored to love and thee.
" Thus let me hold thee to my heart,
And every care resign :
And shall we never, never part,
My life — my all that's mine ?
" No, never from this hour to part,
We'll live and love so true,
The sigh that rends thy constant heart
Shall break thy Edwin's too."
AMOUR WHICH PROMISES LITTLE GOOD
69
While this ballad was reading, Sophia seemed to
mix an air of tenderness with her approbation. But
our tranquillity was soon disturbed by the report of a
gun just by us, and, immediately after, a man was seen
bursting through the
hedge, to take up
the game he had
killed. This sports-
man was the Squire's
chaplain, who had
shot one of the black-
birds that so agree- T
ably entertained us.
So loud a report, and
so near, startled my
daughters ; and I
could perceive that
Sophia in the fright
had thrown herself
into Mr. Burchell's
arms for protection.
The gentleman came
up, and asked pardon
for having disturbed
us, affirming that
he was ignorant of
our being so near. He therefore sat down by my
youngest daughter, and, sportsman -like, offered her
what he had killed that morning. She was going to
refuse, but a private look from her mother soon induced
her to correct the mistake, and accept his present,
though with some reluctance. My wife, as usual,
discovered her pride in a whisper, observing, that
70 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap, viii
Sophy had made a conquest of the chaplain, as well
as her sister had of the Squire. I suspected, however,
with more probability, that her affections were placed
upon a different object. The chaplain's errand was to
inform us, that Mr. Thornhill had provided music and
refreshments ; and intended that night giving the young
ladies a ball by moonlight, on the grass plat before our
door. " Nor can I deny," continued he, but " I have
an interest in being first to deliver this message, as I
expect for my reward to be honoured with Miss
Sophia's hand as a partner." To this my girl replied
that she should have no objection, if she could do it
with honour ; " But here," continued she, " is a gentle-
man," looking at Mr. Burchell, "who has been my com-
panion in the task for the day, and it is fit he should
share in its amusements." Mr. Burchell returned her a
compliment for her intentions, but resigned her up to
the chaplain ; adding, that he was to go that night five
miles, being invited to a harvest supper. His refusal
appeared to me a little extraordinary ; nor could I con-
ceive how so sensible a girl as my youngest could thus
-prefer a man of broken fortunes to one whose expecta-
tions were much greater. But as men are most
capable of distinguishing merit in women, so the ladies
often form the truest judgments of us. The two sexes
seem placed as spies upon each other, and are furnished
with different abilities, adapted for mutual inspection.
*"* - Chapter TSL,
pfrzery eoercreewf to confer sfaptnbr JireectCna.
yJx. BURCHELL had scarce taken leave, and
Sophia consented to dance with the
chaplain, when my little ones came running out to tell
us, that the Squire was come with a crowd of company.
Upon our return, we found our landlord, with a couple
of under gentlemen and two young ladies richly dressed,
whom he introduced as women of very great distinc-
tion and fashion from town. We happened not to
have chairs enough for the whole company ; but Mr.
Thornhill immediately proposed that every gentleman
should sit in a lady's lap. This I positively objected
to, notwithstanding a look of disapprobation from my
wife. Moses was therefore despatched to borrow a
couple of chairs ; and as we were in want of ladies to
make up a- set at country dances, the two gentlemen
went with him in quest of a couple of partners.
Chairs and partners were soon provided. The gentle-
men returned with my neighbour Flamborough's rosy
daughters, flaunting with red top -knots ; but an un-
lucky circumstance was not adverted to, — though the
72
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
Miss Flamboroughs were reckoned the very best
dancers in the parish, and understood the jig and
roundabout to perfection, yet they were totally un-
acquainted with country dances. This at first dis-
composed us : however, after a little shoving and
dragging, they at last went merrily on. Our music
consisted of two fiddles, with a pipe and tabor. The
moon shone bright Mr. Thornhill and my eldest
daughter led up the ball, to the great delight of the
spectators ; for the neighbours, hearing what was going
forward, came flocking about us. My girl moved with
so much grace and vivacity, that my wife could not
avoid discovering the pride of her heart by assuring
me that, though the little chit did it so cleverly, all the
steps were stolen from herself. The ladies of the
town strove hard to be equally easy, but without
success. They swam, sprawled, languished, and frisked ;
LADIES OF GREAT DISTINCTION INTRODUCED
73
but all would not do : the gazers indeed owned that it
was fine ; but neighbour Flamborough observed that
Miss Livy's feet seemed as patf to the music as its
echo. After the dance had continued about an hour,
the two ladies, who were apprehensive of catching cold,
moved to break up the ball. One of them, I thought,
expressed her sentiments upon this occasion in a very-
coarse manner when she observed, that, by the living
74
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
jingo, she was all of a muck of sweat. Upon our
return to the house, we found a very elegant cold
supper, which Mr. Thornhill had ordered to be brought
with him. The conversation at this time was more
reserved than before. The two ladies threw my girls
into the shade ; for they would talk of nothing but
high life, and high-lived company ; with other fashion-
able topics, such as pictures, taste, Shakespeare, and
- tlie musical glasses. 'Tis true they once or twice
mortffielTus sensibly by slipping out an oath ; but that
appeared to me as the surest symptom of their dis-
tinction (though I am since informed that swearing is
perfectly unfashionable). Their finery, however, threw
a veil over any grossness in their conversation. My
ix LADIES OF GREAT DISTINCTION INTRODUCED 75
daughters seemed to regard their superior accomplish-
ments with envy ; and what appeared amiss, was
ascribed to tip - top quality breeding. But the con-
descension of the ladies was still superior to their
accomplishments. One of them
observed, that had Miss Olivia
seen a little more of the world,
it would greatly improve her ; to
which the other added, that a
single winter in town would make
her little Sophia quite another
thing. My wife warmly assented
to both ; adding, that there was
nothing she more ardently wished
than to give her girls a single
winter's polishing. To this I
could not help replying, that their
breeding was already superior to
their fortune ; and that greater
refinement would only serve to
make their poverty ridiculous, and
give them a taste for pleasures
they had no right to possess.
"And what pleasures,'' cried Mr.
Thornhill, " do they not deserve
to possess, who have so much in their power to bestow?
As for my part," continued he, " my fortune is pretty
large ; love, liberty, and pleasure are my maxims ; but
curse me, if a settlement of half my estate could give
my charming Olivia pleasure, it should be hers ; and
the only favour I would ask in return would be to add
myself to the benefit." I was not such a stranger to
the world as to be ignorant that this was the fashion-
y6 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
able cant to disguise the insolence of the basest
proposal ; but I made an effort to suppress my resent-
ment. " Sir," cried I, " the family which you now
condescend to favour with your company has been
bred with as nice jl sense of honour as you. Any
attempts to injure that may be attended with very
dangerous consequences. Honour, Sir, is our only
possession at present, and of that last treasure we must
be particularly careful." I was soon ' sorry for the
warmth with which I had spoken this, when the young
gentleman, grasping my hand, swore he commended
my spirit, though he disapproved my suspicions. " As
to your present hint," continued he, " I protest nothing
was farther from my heart than such a thought. No,
by all that's tempting ! the virtue that will stand a
regular siege was never to my taste ; for all my amours
are carried by a coup -de^ main ."
The two ladies, who affected to be ignorant of the
rest, seemed highly displeased with this last stroke of
freedom, and began a very discreet and serious dialogue
upon virtue : in this, my wife, the chaplain, and I, soon
joined ; and the Squire himself was at last brought to
confess a sense of sorrow for his former excesses. We
talked of the pleasures of temperance, and of the sun-
shine in the mind unpolluted with guilt. I was so
well pleased, that my little ones were kept up beyond
the usual time to be edified by so much good conversa-
tion. Mr. Thornhill even went beyond me, and
demanded if I had any objection to giving prayers. I
joyfully embraced the proposal ; and in this manner
the night was passed in the most comfortable way, till
at last the company began to think of returning. The
ladies seemed very unwilling to part with my daughters,
ix LADIES OF GREAT DISTINCTION INTRODUCED
77
for whom they had conceived a particular affection, and
joined in a request to have the pleasure of their
company home. The Squire seconded the proposals,
and my wife added her entreaties ; the girls, too, looked
upon me as if they wished to go. In this perplexity,
I made two or three excuses, which my daughters as
readily removed ; so that at last I was obliged to give
a peremptory refusal, for which we had nothing but
sullen looks and short answers the whole day ensuing.
cXPCe S&mcg/' €ncteorootcY> Kb co/jear^/C^TefroS^^ercC
i'^c^^r^cTG^^e J^or; xtffen *% otkrajd'to a/fear
ccCove iftyzc'r (urcam&tcrnceer,
U^i NOW began to find that all my long and
painful lectures upon temperance, simplicity,
and contentment were entirely disregarded. The
distinctions lately paid us by our betters awakened
that pride which I had laid asleep, but not removed.
Our windows, again, as formerly, were filled with
washes for the neck and face. The sun was dreaded
as an enemy to the skin without doors, and the fire as
a spoiler of the complexion within. My wife observed
that rising too early would hurt her daughters' eyes,
that working after dinner would redden their noses ;
and she convinced me that the hands never looked so
white as when they did nothing. Instead therefore of
finishing George's shirts, we now had them new-
modelling their old gauzes, or flourishing upon catgut.
The poor Miss Flamboroughs, their former gay
companions, were cast off as mean acquaintance, and
the whole conversation ran upon high life, and high-
chap, x ENDEAVOUR TO COPE WITH THEIR BETTERS 79
lived company, with pictures, taste, Shakespeare, and
the musical glasses.
But we could have borne all this, had not a fortune-
telling gipsy come to raise us into perfect sublimity.
The tawny sibyl no sooner appeared, than my girls
J J cuter*
came running to me for a shilling apiece to cross her
hand with silver. To say the truth, I was tired of
being always wise, and could not help gratifying their
request, because I loved to see them happy. I gave
each of them a shilling ; though for the honour of the
So THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
family it must be observed, that they never went' with-
out money themselves, as my wife always generously
let them have a guinea each, to keep in their pockets,
but with strict injunctions never to change it. After
they had been closeted up with the fortune-teller for
some time, I knew by their looks, upon their returning,
that they had been promised something great. "Well,
my girls, how have you sped ? Tell me, Livy, has ^the
fortune-teller given thee a pennyworth ? " — " I protest,
papa," says the girl, " I believe she deals with some-
body that's not right ; for she positively declared, that
I am to be married to a Squire in less than a twelve-
month ! " — " Well, now, Sophy, my child," said I, " and
what sort of a husband are you to have?" — "Sir,"
replied she, " I am to have a Lord soon after my sister
has married the Squire." — " How," cried I, " is that all
you are to have for your two shillings ? Only a Lord
and a Squire for two shillings ? You fools, I could
have promised you a Prince and a Nabob for half the
money."
This curiosity of theirs, however, was attended with
very serious effects : we now began to think ourselves
. designed by the stars to something exalted, and already
anticipated our future grandeur.
It has been a thousand times observed, and I musi
observe it once more, that the hours we pass with
happy prospects in view, are more pleasing than those
crowned with fruition. In the first case, we cook the
dish to our own appetite ; in the latter, Nature cooks i
^ for us. It is impossible to repeat the train of agreeable
reveries we called up for our entertainment. Wc
looked upon our fortunes as once more rising ; and, a^
the whole parish asserted that the Squire was in lovi
ENDEAVOUR TO COPE WITH THEIR BETTERS 81
with my daughter, she was actually so with him ; for
they persuaded her into the passion. In this agreeable
interval my wife had the most lucky dreams in the
world, which she took care to tell us every morning
with great solemnity and exactness. It was one night
a coffin and cross-bones, the sign of an approaching
wedding ; at another^
time she imagined
her daughters' pockets
filled with farthings, a
certain sign of their
being shortly stuffed"
with gold. The girls^
themselves had their-
omens. They felt ""
strange kisses on^
their lips ; they saw"
rings in the candle ;-
purses bounced from the fire, and true-love-knots lurked
in the bottom of every teacup.
Towards the end of the week we received a card
from the two ladies, in which, with their compliments,
they hoped to see all our family at church the Sunday,
following. All Saturday morning I could perceive, in
consequence of this, my wife and daughters in close,
conference together, and now and then glancing at me
with looks that betrayed a latent plot. . To be sincere,
I had strong suspicions that some absurd proposal was
preparing for appearing with splendour the next day.
In the evening they began their operations in a very
regular manner, and my wife undertook to conduct the
siege. After tea, when I seemed in spirits, she began
thus : — " I fancy, Charles, my dear, we shall have a
G
82
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
great deal of good company at our church to-morrow."
— "Perhaps we may, my dear," returned I, "though
you need be under no uneasiness about that ; you shall
have a sermon whether there be or not." — "That is
what I expect," returned she ; " but I think, my dear,
With looks that betrayed a latent plot.
we ought to appear there as decently as possible, for
who knows what may happen ? " — " Your precautions,"
replied I, " are highly commendable. A decent
behaviour and appearance in church is what charms
me. We should be devout and humble, cheerful and
serene." — " Yes," cried she, " I know that ; but I mean
we should go there in as proper a manner as possible ;
not altogether like the scrubs about us." — "You are
ENDEAVOUR TO COPE WITH THEIR BETTERS
S3
quite right, my dear," returned I, " and I was going to
make the very same proposal. The proper manner of
going is to go there as early as possible, to have time
for meditation before the service begins." — " Phoo,
Charles," interrupted she, " all that is very true ; but
not what I would be at : I mean, we should go there
genteelly. You know the church is two miles off, and
I protest I don't like to see my daughters trudging up
•^-i ''7 v' ii
to their pew all blowzed and red with walking, and
looking for all the world as if they had been winners
Jat a smockrace. Now, my dear, my proposal is this :
there are our two plough-horses, the Colt that has been
in our family these nine years, and his companion
Blackberry, that has scarce done an earthly thing for
this month past. They are both grown fat and lazy.
Why should not they do something as well as we ?
And let me tell you, when Moses has trimmed them a
little, they will cut a very tolerable figure."
To this proposal I objected that walking would be
§4
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
twenty times more genteel than such a paltry convey-
ance, as Blackberry was wall-eyed, and the Colt wanted
a tail ; that they had never been broke to the rein, but
had a hundred vicious tricks ; and that we had but one
saddle and pillion in the whole house. All these
objections, however, were overruled ; so that I was
obliged to comply. The next morning I perceived
them not a little busy in collecting such materials as
might be necessary for the expedition ; but, as I found
it would be a business of time, I walked on to the
church before, and they promised speedily to follow.
I waited near an hour in the reading desk for their
arrival ; but not finding them come as expected, I
was obliged to begin, and went through the service, not
without some uneasiness at finding them absent. This
was increased when all was finished, and no appearance
•ENDEAVOUR TO COPE WITH THEIR BETTERS
85
of the family. I therefore walked back by the horse-
way, which was five miles round, though the footway
was ' but two, and, when got about half-way home,
perceived the procession marching slowly forward to-
wards the church ; my son, my wife, and ,the two little
ones exalted on one horse, and my two daughters upon
the other. I demanded the cause of their delay ; but
I soon found by their looks they had met with a
86
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
thousand misfortunes on the road. The horses had at
first refused to move from the door, till Mr. Burchell
was kind enough to beat them forward for about two
hundred yards with his cudgel. Next, the straps of my
wife's pillion broke down, and they were obliged to stop
- ■>* l -move. Jiom, tftg door"
to repair them before they could proceed. After that,
one of the horses took it into his head to stand still,
and neither blows nor entreaties could prevail with him-
to proceed. It was just recovering from this dismal
situation that I found them ; but perceiving every-
thing safe, I own their present mortification did not
much displease me, as it would give me many oppor-
tunities of future triumph, and teach my daughters
more humility.
^ (C/fae(m<&-(Se happening on the next day,
we were invited to burn nuts and play
tricks at neighbour Flamborough's.
Our late mortifications had humbled
us a little, or it is probable we might have rejected such
an invitation with contempt : I however, we suffered
ourselves to be happy. Our honest neighbour's goose
and dumplings were fine, and the lamb's- wool, even
in the opinion of my wife, who was a connoisseur, was
excellent. It is true, his manner of telling stories was
not quite so well. They were very long, and very
dull, and all about himself, and we had laughed at
them ten times before : however, we were kind enough
to laugh at them once more.
Mr. Burchell, who was of the party, was always fond
of seeing some innocent amusement going forward, and
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
set the boys and girls to blind-man's buff. My wife,
too, was persuaded to join in the diversion, and it gave
me pleasure to think she was not yet too old. In the
meantime, my neighbour and I looked on, laughed at
( His manner of telling stories.
every feat, and praised our own dexterity when we
were young. Hot^cockles succeeded next, questions
and commands followed that, and, last of all, they sat
down to hunt the slipper. As every person, may not
be acquainted with this primeval pastime, it may be
xi STILL RESOLVE TO HOLD UP THEIR HEADS 89
necessary to observe, that the company at this play
plant themselves in a ring upon the ground, all except
one, who stands in the middle, whose business it is to
catch a shoe, which the company shove, about under
their hams from one to another, something like a
weaver's shuttle. As it is impossible, in this case, for
the lady who is up to face all the company at once,
the great beauty of the play lies in hitting her a thump
with the heel of the shoe on that side least capable of
making a defence. It was in this manner that my
eldest daughter was hemmed in, and thumped about,- all
blowzed, in spirits, and bawling for fair play, fair play,
with a voice that might deafen a ballad-singer, when,
confusion on confusion ! who should enter the room
but our two great acquaintances from town, Lady
Blarney and Miss Carolina Wilelmina Amelia Skeggs !
Description would but beggar, therefore it is unneces-
sary to describe, this new mortification. Death ! To
be seen by ladies of such high breeding in such vulgar
attitudes ! Nothing better could ensue from such a
vulgar play of Mr. Flamborough's proposing. We
seemed struck to the ground for some time, as if
actually petrified with amazement.
The two ladies had been at our house to see us,
and finding us from home, came after us hither, as
they were uneasy to know what accident could have
kept us from church the day before. Olivia undertook
to be our prolocutor, and delivered the whole in a
summary way, only saying, "We were thrown from
our horses/' At which account the ladies were greatly
concerned ; but being told the family received no hurt,
they were extremely glad ; but being informed that we
were almost killed by the fright, they were vastly sorry ;
90 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
but hearing that we had a very good night, they were
extremely glad again. Nothing could exceed their
complaisance to my daughters : «£heir professions the
last evening were warm, but now they were ardent.
They protested a desire of having a more lasting
acquaintance. Lady Blarney was particularly attached
to Olivia ; Miss Carolina Wilelmina Amelia Skeggs
(I love to give the whole * name) took a greater fancy
to her sister. They supported the conversation between
themselves, while my daughters sat silent, admiring
their exalted breeding. But as every reader, however
beggarly himself, is fond of high-lived dialogues, with
anecdotes of Lords, Ladies, and Knights of the Garter,
I must beg leave to give him the concluding part of
the present conversation.
" All that I know of the matter," cried Miss Skeggs,
" is this, that it may be true or may not be true ; but
this I can assure your "Ladyship, that the whole rout
was in amaze : his Lordship turned all manner of
colours, my Lady fell into a sound, but Sir Tomkyn
drawing his sword, swore he was hers to the last drop
of his blood."
" Well," replied our Peeress, " this I can say, that the
Duchess never told me a syllable of the matter, and I
believe her Grace would keep nothing a secret from me.
This you may depend upon as fact, that the next
morning my Lord Duke cried out three times to his
valet ...- de - chambre, Jernigan ! Jernigan ! Jernigan !
bring me my garters."
But previously I should have mentioned the very
impolite behaviour of Mr. Burchell, who, during this
discourse, sat with his face turned to the fire, and,
at the conclusion of every sentence, would cry out
xj
STILL RESOLVE TO HOLD UP THEIR HEADS
fudge, an expression which displeased us all, and, in
some measure, damped the rising spirit of the con-
versation.
*' Besides, my dear Skeggs," continued our Peeress,
" there is nothing of this in the copy of verses that Dr.
Burdock made upon the occasion." — Fudge !
" I am surprised at that," cried Miss Skeggs ; " for
he seldom leaves anything out, as he writes only for
his own amusement. But can your Ladyship favour
me with a sight of them ? " — Fudge I
" My dear creature," replied our Peeress, " do you
think I carry such things about me ? Though they
are very fine, to be sure, and I think myself something
92 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
#
of a judge — at least I know what pleases myself. In-
deed, I was ever an admirer of all Dr. Burdock's little
pieces ; for, except what he does, and our dear Countess
at Hanover Square, there's nothing comes out but the
most lowest stuff in nature ; not a bit of high life
among trfem."- — Fudge !
"Your Ladyship should except," says the other,
"your own things in the Lady's Magazine. I hope
you'll say there's nothing low-lived there ? But I
suppose we are to have no more from that quarter ? "
. — Fudge !
"Why, my dear," says the lady, "you know my
reader and companion has left me, to be married to
Captain Roach, and as my poor eyes won't suffer me
to write myself, I have been for some time looking out
for another. A proper person is no easy matter to
find ; and, to be sure, thirty pounds a year is a small
stipend for a well-bred girl of character, that can
read, write, and behave in company : as for the chits
about town, there is no bearing them about one." —
Fitdge !
" That I know," cried Miss Skeggs, " by experience.
For of the three companions I had this last half year,
one of them refused to do plain-work an hour in the
day ; another thought twenty-five guineas a year too
small a salary ; and I was obliged to send away the
third, because I suspected an intrigue with the chap-
lain. Virtue, my dear Lady Blarney, virjue^js^worth
an y._-E£icej but where is that to be found?" —
Fudge !
My wife had been, for a long time, all attention
to this discourse, but was particularly struck with the
latter part of it. Thirty, pounds and twenty -five
STILL RESOLVE TO HOLD UP THEIR HEADS
93
guineas a year, made fifty-six pounds five shillings
English money, all which was in a manner going a-
begging, and might easily be secured in the family.
She for a moment studied my looks for approbation ;
and, to own a truth, I was of opinion, that two such
places would fit our two daughters exactly. Besides, i(
94 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
the Squire had any real affection for my eldest daughter,
this would be the way to make her every way qualified
for her fortune. My wife, therefore, was resolved that
we should not be deprived of such advantages for want
of assurance, and undertook to harangue for the family.
" I hope," cried she, " your Ladyships will pardon my
present presumption. It is true, we have no right to
pretend to such favours ; but yet it is natural for me
to wish putting my children forward in the world.
And, I will be bold to say, my two—girls— have— Jiad
a pretty good education and ca pacity ;_at least the
country can't show better. They can read, write, and
cast accounts ; they understand their needle, broad-
stitch, cross and change, and all manner of plain-work ;
they can pink, point, and frill, and know something
of music ; they can do up small clothes, work upon
catgut ; my eldest can cut paper, and my youngest
has a very pretty manner of telling fortunes upon the
cards." — Fudge I
When she had delivered this pretty piece of elo-
quence, the two ladies looked at each other a few
minutes in silence, with an air of doubt and importance.
At last Miss Carolina Wilelmina Amelia Skeggs con-
descended to observe that the young ladies, from the
opinion she could form of them from so slight an
acquaintance, seemed very fit for such employments.
" But a thing of this kind, Madam," cried she, address-
ing my spouse, " requires a thorough examination into
characters, and a more perfect knowledge of each other.
Not, Madam," continued she, " that I in the least
suspect the young ladies' virtue, prudence, and dis-
cretion ; but there is a fojf^ in these things, Madam
I — there is a form."
a fojf^i
STILL RESOLVE TO HOLD UP THEIR HEADS
95
My wife approved her suspicions very much, observ-
ing that she was very apt to be suspicious herself, but
referred her to all the neighbours for a character ; but
this our Peeress declined as unnecessary, alleging that
her cousin ThornhiU's recommendation would be
sufficient ; and upon this we rested our petition.
cJ^rfc/cadionr are often more #ec<Vu/u/ 'tf&ri reaCQ/amtfce&
fn^n we were returned home, the night was
dedicated to schemes of future con-
quest. Deborah exerted much sagacity
in conjecturing which of the two girls
was likely to have the best place, and
most opportunities of seeing good company. The only
obstacle to our preferment was in obtaining the Squire's
recommendation ; but he had already shown us too many
instances of his friendship to doubt of it now. Even in
bed, my wife kept up the usual theme : " Well, faith,
my dear Charles, between ourselves, I think we have
made an excellent day's work of it." — " Pretty well ! "
cried I, not knowing what to say. " What, only pretty
well ! " returned she : " I think it is very well. Suppose'
the girls should come to make acquaintances of taste
in town ! This I am assured of, that London is the
only place in the world for all manner of husbands.
Besides, my dear, stranger things happen every day :
and as ladies of quality are so taken with my daughters,
what will not men of quality be ? Entre nous, I pro-
zhav xii FORTUNE HUMBLES THE FAMILY 97
[ like my Lady Blarney vastly — so very obliging.
However, Miss Carolina Wilelmina Amelia Skeggs has
ny warm heart. But yet, when they came to talk
.f places in town, you saw at once how I nailed them,
me, my dear, don't you think I did for my children
? " — " Ay," returned I, not knowing well what to
link of the matter ; " Heaven grant they may be both
better for it this day three months !," This was
one of those observations I usually made to impress
my wife with an opinion of my sagacity : for if the girls
succeeded, then it was a pious wish fulfilled ; but if any-
thing unfortunate ensued, then it might be looked
upon as a prophecy. All this conversation, however,
was only preparatory to another scheme ; and indeed I
dreaded as much. This was nothing less than that, as
we were now to hold up our heads a little higher in the
vw>r L; it would be proper to sell the Colt, which was
grown old, at a neighbouring fair, and buy us a horse
that would carry a single or double upon an occasion,
make a pretty appearance at church, or upon a
This at first I opposed stoutly ; but it was
defended. However, as I weakened, my
onist gained strength, till at last it was resolved
to part with him.
As the fair happened on the following day, I had
itions of going myself; but my wife persuaded me
' had got a cold, and nothing could prevail upon
) permit me from home. " No, my dear," said
' our son Moses is a discreet boy, and can buy and
) a very good advantage : you know all our great
gain& are of his purchasing. He always stands out
liggles, and actually tires them till he gets a
bargain"
H
98
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
As I had some opinion of my son's prudence, Irwas
willing enough to entrust him with this commission :
and the next morning I perceived his sisters mighty
busy in fitting out Moses for the fair ; trimming his
c/<Mlt)« c$ d%J^J^r &)* &
hair, brushing his buckles, and cocking his hat with
pins. The business of the toilet being over, we had at
last the satisfaction of seeing him mounted upon' the
Colt, with a deal box before him to bring home groceries
in. He had on a coat made of that cloth they call
FORTUNE HUMBLES THE FAMILY
99
thunder-and-lightning, which, though grown too short,
was much too good to be thrown away. His waistcoat
was of a gosling green, and his sisters had tied his hair
with a broad black ribbon. We all followed him
several paces from the door, bawling after him, " Good
luck ! good luck ! " till we could see him no longer.
tfeS <sfaffcnp for 1%e cSatir.
He was scarce gone, when Mr. Thornhill's butler
came to congratulate us upon our good fortune, saying
that he overheard his young master mention our names
with great commendation.
Good fortune seemed resolved not to come alone.
Another footman from the same family followed, with
a card for my daughters, importing that the two ladies
had received such pleasing accounts from Mr. Thornhill
of us all, that after a few previous inquiries they hoped
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
jindC
gave tfe "tessenjer
Jevenftence dv(f foamy
. to be perfectly satisfied. " Ay," cried my wife, " I now
see it is no easy matter to get into the families of the
great ; but when one once gets in, then, as Moses says,
one may go to sleep." To this piece of humour, for
she intended it for wit, my daughters assented with a
loud laugh of pleasure. In short, such was her satis-
faction at this message, that she actually put her hand
in her pocket, and gave the messenger sevenpence
halfpenny.
This was to be our visiting day. The next that
came was Mr. Burchell, who had been at the fair. He
brought my little ones a pennyworth of gingerbread
xii FORTUNE HUMBLES Tti£ FAMILY*'* ' ioV'
each, which my wife undertook to keep for them, and
give them by letters at a time. He brought my
daughters also a couple of boxes, in which they might
keep wafers, snuff, patches, or even money, when they
got it. My wife was .usually fond of a weasel-skin
purse, as being the most lucky ; but this by the by.
We had still a regard for Mr. Burchell, though his late
rude behaviour was in some measure displeasing ; nor
could we now avoid communicating our happiness to
him, and asking his advice : although we seldom
followed advice, we were all ready enough to ask it.
When he read the note' from the two ladies, he shook
his head, and observed, that an affair of this sort
demanded the utmost circumspection. This air of
diffidence highly displeased my wife. " I never doubted,
Sir," cried she, "your readiness to be against my
daughters and me. You have more circumspection
than is wanted. However, I fancy when we come to
ask advice, we will apply to persons who seem to have
made use of it themselves." — "Whatever my own
conduct may have been, Madam," replied he, " is not
the present question : though, as I have made no use
of advice myself, I should in conscience give it to
those that will." As I was apprehensive this answer
might draw on a repartee, making up by abuse what
it wanted in wit, I changed the subject, by seeming to
wonder what could keep our son so long at the fair, as
it was now almost nightfall. "Never mind our son,"
cried my wife ; " depend upon it he knows what he is
about. I'll warrant we'll never see him sell his hen of
a rainy day. I have seen him buy such bargains as
would amaze one. I'll tell you a good story about
that, that will make you split your sides with laughing.
Wo£ r THE 'VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
— But, as I live, yonder comes Moses, without a horse,
and the box at his back."
As she spoke, Moses came slowly on foot, and
sweating under the deal box, which he had strapt
round his shoulders like a pedlar. " Welcome,
welcome, Moses ! well, my boy, what have you brought
us from the fair ? " — " I have brought you myself,"
cried Moses, with a sly look, and resting the box on
the dresser. " Ay, Moses," cried my wife, " that we
know ; but where is the horse ? " — " I have sold him,"
cried Moses, " for three pounds five shillings and two-
pence." — " Well done, my good boy," returned she ; " I
knew you would touch them off. Between ourselves,
three pounds five shillings and twopence is no bad
FORTUNE HUMBLES THE FAMILY
103
day's work. Come, let us have it then." — " I have
brought back no money," cried Moses again. " I have
laid it all out in a bargain, and here it is," pulling out
a bundle from his breast : " here they are ; a gross of
Jaax tyokyir <of>y worfi jour's fay & flsaycrf
i silve
green spectacles, withWver rims and shagreen cases." —
" A gross of green spectacles ! " repeated my wife, in a
faint voice. " And you have parted with the Colt, and
brought us back nothing but a gross of green paltry
spectacles ! " — " Dear mother," cried the boy, " why
won't you listen to reason ? I had them a dead bargain,
104 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
or I should not have brought them. The silver rims
alone will sell for double the money." — " A fig for the
silver rims," cried my wife, in a passion : " I dare swear
they won't sell for above half the money at the rate of
broken silver, five shillings an ounce." — " You need be
under no uneasiness," cried I, " about selling the rims,
for they are not worth sixpence ; for I perceive they
are only copper varnished over."-^-" What ! " cried my
wife, " not silver ! the rims not silver ? " — " No," cried I,
" no more silver than your sauce-pan." — " And so,"
returned she, " we have parted with the Colt, and have
only got a gross of green spectacles, with copper rims
and shagreen cases ? A murrain take such trumpery !
The blockhead has been imposed upon, and should
have known his company better." — " There, my dear,"
cried I, " you are wrong ; he should not have known
them at all." — " Marry, hang the idiot ! " returned she,
"to bring me such stuff: if I had them I would throw
them in the fire." — " There again you are wrong, my
dear," cried I ; " for though they be copper, we will
keep them by us, as copper spectacles, you know, are
better than nothing."
By this time the unfortunate Moses was undeceived.
He now saw that he had been imposed upon by a
prowling sharper, who, observing his figure, had marked
him for an easy prey. I therefore asked the circum r
stances of his deception. He sold the horse, it seems,
and walked the fair in search of another. A reverend-
looking man brought him to a tent, under pretence of
having one to sell. " Here," continued Moses, " we
met another man, very well dressed, who desired to
borrow twenty pounds upon these, saying that he
wanted money, and would dispose of them for a third
FORTUNE HUMBLES THE FAMILY
io5
of the value. The first gentleman, who pretended to
be my friend, whispered me to buy them, and cautioned
me not to let so good an offer pass. I sent for Mr.
Flamborough, and they talked him up as finely as they
did me ; and so at last we were persuaded to buy the
two gross between us."
£Hff'
i^)arr/ie(V(^jSavcC to <x an ^omxfjor /\k
faxstfce confidence iogcve c(ka^reeaC(e yfctvcce.
\CCV family had now made several attempts
to be fine; but some unforeseen disaster
demolished each as soon as projected.
I endeavoured to take the advantage
of every disappointment to improve their good sense,
in proportion as they were frustrated in ambition.
" You see, my children," cried I, " how little is to be
got by attempts to impose upon the world in coping
' with our betters. Such as are poor, and will associate
with none but the rich, are hated by those they avoid,
_and despised by those they follow. Unequal combina-
tions are always disadvantageous to the weaker side :
the rich having the pleasure, and the poor the incon-
veniences that result from them. But come, Dick, my
boy, and repeat the fable you were reading to-day, for
the good of the company."
chap, xni MR. BURCHELL AN ENEMY 107
" Once upon a time," cried the child, " a Giant and
a Dwarf were friends, and kept together. They made
a bargain that they would never forsake each other,
but go seek adventures. The first battle they fought
was with two Saracens, and the Dwarf, who was very
courageous, dealt one of the champions a most angry
blow. It did the Saracen but very little injury, who, lift-
ing up his sword, fairly struck off the poor Dwarfs arm.
He was now in a woful plight ; but the Giant, coming
to his assistance, in a short time left the two Saracens
dead on the plain, and the Dwarf cut off the dead
man's head out of spite. They then travelled on to
another adventure. This was against three bloody -
minded Satyrs, who were carrying away a damsel in
distress. The Dwarf was not quite so fierce now as
before ; but for all that struck 1 the first blow, which was
returned by another that knocked out his eye ; but the
Giant was soon up with them, and, had they not fled,
would certainly have killed them every one. " They
were all very joyful for this victory, and the damsel
who was relieved fell in love with the Giant, and
married him. They now travelled far, and farther than
I can tell, till they met with a company of robbers.
The Giant, for the first time, was foremost now ; but
the Dwarf was not far behind. The battle was stout
and long. Wherever the Giant came, all fell before
him ; but the Dwarf had like >to have been killed more
than once. At last the victory declared for the two
adventurers ; but the Dwarf lost his leg. The Dwarf
had now lost an arm, a leg, and an eye, while the
Giant was without a single wound ; upon which he
cried out to his little companion, ' My little hero, this
is glorious sport ! let us get one victory more, and then
108 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
we shall have honour for ever.' — ' No/ cries the Dwarf,
who was by this time grown wiser, ' no, I declare off ;
I'll fight no more : for I find in every battle that you
get all the honours and rewards, but all the blows fall
upon me.' "
I was going to moralise this fable, when our atten-
tion was called off to a warm dispute between my wife
and Mr. Burchell, upon my daughters' intended
expedition to town. " My wife very strenuously insisted
upon the advantages that would result from it : Mr.
Burchell, on the contrary, dissuaded her with great
ardour ; and I stood neuter. His present dissuasions
seemed but the second part of those which were received
with so ill a grace in the morning. The dispute grew
high ; while poor Deborah, instead of reasoning stronger,
talked louder, and at last was obliged to take shelter
from a defeat in clamour. The conclusion of her
harangue, however, was highly displeasing to us all :
she knew, she said, of some who had their own secret
reasons for what they advised ; but, for her part, she
wished such to stay away from her house for the future.
" Madam," cried Burchell, with looks of great composure,
which tended to inflame her the more, " as for secret
reasons, you are right : I have secret reasons, which I
forbear to mention, because you are not able to answer
those of which I make no secret ; but I find my visits
here are become troublesome ; I'll take my leave there-
fore now, and perhaps come once more to take a final
farewell when I am quitting the country." Thus
saying, he took up his hat, nor could the attempts of
Sophia, whose looks seemed to upbraid his precipitancy,
prevent his going.
When gone, we all regarded each other for some
MR. BURCHELL AN ENEMY
109
minutes with confusion. My wife, who knew herself to
be the cause, strove to hide her concern with a forced
smile, and an air of assurance, which I was willing to
reprove. " How, woman," cried I to her, " is it thus we
treat strangers ? Is it thus we return their kindness ?
Be assured, my dear, that these were the harshest words,
tf'.Ci icJlstf »»V ^eo*t Tft)«t*^»re/.
and to me the most unpleasing, that ever escaped your
lips ! " — " Why would he provoke me, then ? " replied*
she ; " but I know the motives of his advice perfectly
well. He would prevent my girls from going to town,
that he may have the pleasure of my youngest daughter's
company here at home. But, whatever happens, she
shall choose better company than such low-lived fellows
as he." — " Low-lived, my dear, do you call him ? " cried
no THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap, xiii
I ; " it is very possible we may mistake this man's
character, for he seems, upon some occasions, the most
finished gentleman I ever knew. Tell me, Sophia, my
girl, has he ever given you any secret instances of his
attachment ? " — " His conversation with me, Sir," replied
my daughter, "has ever been sensible, modest, and
pleasing. As to aught else-r— no, never. Once, indeed,
I remember to have heard him say, he never knew a
woman who could find merit in a man that seemed
poor." — " Such, my dear," cried I, " is the common cant
of all the unfortunate or idle. But I hope you have
been taught to judge properly of such men, and that it
would be even madness to expect happiness from one
who has been so very bad an economist of his own.
Your mother and I have now better prospects for you.
The next winter, which you will probably spend in
town, will give you opportunities of making a more
prudent choice."
What Sophia's reflections were upon this occasion I
cannot pretend to determine ; but I was not displeased
at the bottom that we were rid of a guest from whom
I had much to fear. Our breach of hospitality went to
my conscience a little ; but I quickly silenced that
monitor by two or three specious reasons, which served
to satisfy and reconcile me to myself. The pain which
conscience gives the man who has already done wrong
is soon got over. 55 ^ Conscience is a coward ; and those
JjaJiits it has not strength enough to prevent, it seldom
has justice enough to accuse.
v^-? *^- * i&y&& >«^ ^%&%£.
AC journey of my daughters to town was
now resolved upon, Mr. Thornhill having
kindly promised to inspect their conduct
himself, and inform us by letter of their behaviour.
But it was thought indispensably necessary that their
appearance should equal the greatness of their expecta-
tions, which could not be done without expense. We
debated therefore in full council what were the
easiest methods of raising money, or, more properly
' speaking, what we could most conveniently sell. The
deliberation was soon finished : it was found that our
remaining horse was utterly useless for the plough
without his companion, and equally unfit for the road,
u^
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
we should dispose of him for the purpose above
mentioned, at the neighbouring fair ; and, to prevent
imposition, that I should go with him myself. Though
this was one of the first mercantile transactions of my
life, yet I had no doubt about acquitting myself with
reputation. The opinion a man forms of hi$
prudence is measured by that of the company
keeps : and as mine was most in the family way, I had
conceived no unfavourable sentiments of my worldly
wisdom. My wife, however, next morning, at parting,
after I had got some paces from the door, called me
back to advise me, in a whisper, to have all my eyes
about me.
XIV
FRESH MORTIFICATIONS
113
I had, in the usual forms, when I came to the fair,
put my horse through all his paces, but for some time
had no bidders. At last a chapman approached, and
after he had for a good while examined the horse
round, finding him blind of one eye, he would have
nothing to say to him ; a second came up, but observ-
ing he had a spavin, declared he would not take him
£h
^
c^-VXe 2&<r.
for the driving home ; a third perceived he had a wind-
gall, and would bid no money ; a fourth knew by his
eye that he had the bo^ts ; a fifth wondered what a
plague I could do at the fair with a blind, spavined,
galled hack, that was only fit to be cut up for a dog
kennel. By this time, I began to have a most hearty
contempt for the poor animal myself, and was almost
ashamed at the approach of every customer : for
I
n 4
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
CHAP.
though I did not entirely believe all the fellows told
me, yet I reflected that the number of witnesses was a
strong presumption they were right ; and St. Gregory,
upon Good Works, professes himself to be of the same
opinion.
I was in this mortifying situation, when a brother
clergyman, an old acquaintance, who had also business
at the fair, came up, and, shaking me by the hand,
proposed adjourning to a public-house, and taking a
glass of whatever we could get. I readily closed with
the offer, and entering an alehouse, we were shown
into a little back room, where there was only a vener-
XIV
FRESH MORTIFICATIONS
"5
able old man, who sat wholly intent over a large book,
which he was reading. I never in my life saw a figure
that prepossessed me more favourably. His locks of
silver grey venerably shaded bis temples, and his green
old age seemed to be the result of health and benevo-
lence. However, his presence did not interrupt our
conversation : my friend and I discoursed on the
various turns of fortune we had met ;
the Whistonian controversy, my last
pamphlet, the archdeacon's reply, and
the hard measure that was dealt me.
But our attention was in a short time <
taken off, by the appearance of a
youth, who, entering the room, respect-
fully said something softly to the old
stranger. " Make no apologies, my
child," said the old man ; " to do good
is a duty we owe to all our fellow-
creatures : take this, I wish it were
more ; but five pounds will relieve
your distress, and you are welcome."
The modest youth shed tears of
gratitude, and yet his gratitude was
scarce equal to mine. I could have
hugged the good old man in my
arms, his benevolence pleased me
so. He continued to read, and we resumed our con-
versation, until my companion, after some time, re-
collecting that he had business to transact in the fair,
promised to be soon back ; adding, that he always
desired to have as much of Dr. Primrose's company as
possible. The old gentleman, hearing my name
mentioned, seemed to look at me with attention for
n6 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
some time ; and when my friend was gone, most
respectfully demanded if I was any way related to the
great Primrose, that courageous monogamist, who had
been the bulwark of the Church. Never did my heart
feel sincerer rapture than at that moment. " Sir, 5 '
cried I, " the applause of so good a man as I am sure
you are, adds to that happiness in my breast which
your benevolence has already excited. You behold
before you, Sir, that Dr. Primrose, the monogamist,
whom you have been pleased to call great. You here
see that unfortunate divine, who has so long, and it
would ill become me to say, successfully, fought against
the deuterogamy of the age/' — " Sir," cried the stranger,
struck with awe, " I fear I have been too familiar, but
you'll forgive my curiosity, Sir : I beg pardon." — (t Sir,"
cried I, grasping his hand, "you are so far from dis-
pleasing me by your familiarity, that I must beg you'll
accept my friendship, as you already have my esteem."
— " Then with gratitude I accept the offer," cried he,
squeezing me by the hand, "thou glorious, pillar of
unshaken orthodoxy ! and do I behold " I here
interrupted what he was going to say ; for though, as
an author, I could digest no small share of flattery, yet
now my modesty would permit no more.x However,
no lovers in romance ever cemented a more instant-
aneous friendship. We talked upon several subjects :
at first I thought he seemed rather devout than learned,
and began to think he despised all human doctrines as
dross. Yet this no way lessened him in my esteem,
Tor I had for some time begun privately to harbour
such an opinion myself. I therefore took occasion to
observe, that the world in general began to be blameably
indifferent as to doctrinal matters, and followed human
xiv FRESH MORTIFICATIONS 117
speculations too much. " Ay, Sir," replied he, as if he
had reserved all his learning to that moment, " Ay,
Sir, the world is in its dotage ; and yet the cosmogony,
or creation of the world, has puzzled philosophers of all
ages. What a medley of opinions have they not
broached upon the creation of the world ! Sancho-
niathon, Manetho, Berosus, and Ocellus Lucanus, have
all attempted it in vain. The latter has these words,
Anarchon ara kai atelutaion to pan, which imply that
all things have neither beginning nor end. Manetho
also, who lived about the time of Nebuchadon-Asser —
Asser being a Syriac word, usually applied as a sur-
name to the kings of that country, as Teglat Phael- Asser,
Nabon- Asser — he, I say, formed a conjecture equally
absurd ; for, as we usually say, ek to biblion kubernetes,
which implies that books will never teach the world ;
so he attempted to investigate But, Sir, I ask
pardon, I am straying from the question." — That he
actually was ; nor could I, for my life, see how the
creation of the world had anything to do with the
business I was talking of; but it was sufficient to show
me that he was a man of letters, and I now reverenced
him the more. I was resolved, therefore, to bring him
to the touchstone ; but he was too mild and too gentle
to contend for victory. Whenever I made an observa-
tion that looked like a challenge to controversy, he
would smile, shake his head, and say nothing ; by
which I understood he could say much, if he thought
proper. v The subject, therefore, insensibly;. ^changed
from the business of antiquity, to that which brought
us both to the fair : mine, I told him, was to sell a
horse, and very luckily, indeed, his was to buy one for
one of his .tenants. My horse was soon produced ;
n8
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
and, in fine, we struck a bargain. Nothing now
remained but to pay me, and he accordingly pulled out
a thirty pound note, and bid me change it. Not being
in a capacity of complying with this demand, he ordered
his footman to be called up, who made his appearance
in a very genteel livery. " Here, Abraham," cried he,
" go and get gold for this ; you'll do it at neighbour
* Qo arxdC (^t'cpotcfjor tffiif'j
Jackson's, or anywhere." While the fellow was gone,
he entertained me with a pathetic harangue on the
great scarcity of silver, which I undertook to improve,
by deploring also the great scarcity of gold ; so
that, by the time Abraham returned, we had both
agreed that money was never so hard to be come at as
now. Abraham returned to inform us, that he had
been over the whole fair, and could not get change,
XIV FRESH MORTIFICATIONS H$
though he had offered half-a-crown for doing it. This
was a very great disappointment to us all ; but the
old gentleman, having paused a little, asked me if I
knew one Solomon Flamborough in my part of the
country. Upon replying that he was my next-door
neighbour : "If that be the case, then," returned he, " I
believe we shall deal. You shall have a draft upon
him, payable at sight ; and, let me tell you, he is as
warm a man as any within five miles round him.
Honest Solomon and I have been acquainted for many
years together. I remember I always beat him at three
jumps ; but he could hop on one leg farther than I."
A draft upon my neighbour was to me the same as
money ; for I was sufficiently convinced of his ability,
The draft was signed, and put into my hands, and Mr.
Jenkinson, the old gentleman, his man Abraham, and
my horse, old Blackberry, trotted off very well pleased
with each other.
After a short interval, being left to reflection, I
began to recollect that I had done wrong in taking a
draft from a stranger, and so prudently resolved upon
following the purchaser, and having back my horse.
But this was now too late ; I therefore made directly
homewards, resolving to get the draft changed into
money at my friend's as fast as possible. I found my
honest neighbour smoking his pipe at his own door, and
informing him that I had a small bill upon him, he
read it twice over. " You can read the name, I suppose,"
cried I, — " Ephraim Jenkinson." — " Yes," returned he,
" the name is written plain enough, and I know the
gentleman too, — the greatest rascal under the canopy
of heaven. This is the very same rogue who sold us
the spectacles. Was he not a venerable-looking man,
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
CHAP.
with grey hair, and no flaps to his pocket-holes ? And
did he not talk a long string of learning about Greek,
and cosmogony, and the world ? " To this I replied
with a groan. " Ay," continued he, " he has but that
one piece of learning in the world, and he always talks
(TJferecfcfcf-uvcce over
it away whenever he finds a scholar in company ; but
I know the rogue, and will catch him yet."
Though I was already sufficiently mortified, my
greatest struggle was to come, in facing my wife and
daughters. No truant was ever more afraid of returning
to school, there to behold the master's visage, than I
was of going home. I was determined, however, to
anticipate their fury, by first falling into a passion
myself.
xiv FRESH MORTIFICATIONS 121
But, alas ! upon entering, I found , the family no
way disposed for battle. My wife and girls were all in
tears, Mr. Thornhill having been there that day to
inform them that their journey to town was entirely
over. The two ladies, having heard reports of us from
some malicious person about us, were that day set out
for London. He could neither discover the tendency
nor the author of these ; but whatever they might be,
or whoever might have broached them, he continued to
assure our family of his friendship and protection. I
found, therefore, that they bore my disappointment with
f great resignation, as it was eclipsed in the greatness of
their own. But what perplexed us most, was to think
who could be so base as to asperse the character of a
* family so harmless as ours ; too humble to excite envy,
and too inoffensive to create disgust.
^CCJi$.$cac&CQfltf(&7xy at once ctftectecC &/G
<2?o(Kj of* '^erncy overcefere-
\(XJT evening, and* a part of the following,
day, was employed in fruitless attempts to
discover our enemies : scarcely a family in
the neighbourhood but incurred our suspicions, and
each of us had reasons for our opinions best known
to ourselves. As we were in this perplexity, one of
our little boys, who had been playing abroad, brought
in a letter-case, which he found on the green. It was
quickly known to belong to Mr. Burchell, with whom'
it had been seen, and, upon examination, contained
some hints upon different subjects ; but what particularly
engaged our attention was a sealed note, superscribed,
the copy of a letter to be sent to the ladies at Thorn-
hill- Castle, It instantly pjccurred that he was the
base informer, and we deliberated whether the note
chap, xv MR. BURCHELL'S VILLAINY DETECTED 123
should not be broken open. I was against it ; but
Sophia, who said she was sure that of all men he would
be the last to be guilty of so much baseness, insisted
upon its being read. In this she was seconded by the
rest of the family, and at their joint j
solicitation I read as follows :- —
. " Ladies,— The bearer will suffi-
ciently satisfy you as to the person
from whom this comes : one at least
the friend of innocence, and ready
to prevent its being seduced. I am
informed for a truth, that you have
some intention of bringing two young
ladies to town, whom I have some
knowledge of, under the character
of companions. As I would neither have simplicity
imposed upon, nor virtue contaminated, I must offer it
as my opinion, that the impropriety of such a step will
be attended with dangerous consequences. It has never
been my way to treat the infamous or the lewd with
severity ; nor should I now have taken this method of
explaining myself, or reproving folly, did it not aim at
guilt. Take, therefore, the admonition of a friend, and
seriously reflect on the consequences of introducing
infamy and vice into retreats where peace and innocence
have hitherto resided."
v * Our doubts were now at a end. There seemed,
indeed, something applicable to both sides in this letter,
and its censures might as well be referred* to those to
whom it was written, as to us ; but the malicious
meaning was obvious, and we went no farther. My
wife had scarcely patience to hear me to the end, but
railed at the writer with unrestrained resentment
I2 4
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
Olivia was equally severe, and Sophia seemed perfectly
amazed at his baseness. As for my part, it appeared
to me one of the vilest instances of unprovoked ingratitude
I had ever met with ; nor could I account for it in any
other manner, than by imputing it to his desire of
detaining my youngest daughter in the country, to have
the more frequent oppor-
tunities of an interview. In
this manner we all sat rumi-
nating upon schemes of ven-
geance, when our other little
boy came running in to tell
us that Mr. Burchell was ap-
proaching at the other end
of the field. It is easier to
conceive than describe the
complicated sensations
which are felt from the pain
of a recent injury, and the
pleasure of approaching ven-
geance. Though our inten-
tions were only to upbraid him with his ingratitude, yet
it was resolved to do it in a manner that would be
perfectly cutting. For this purpose we agreed to
meet him with our usual smiles ; to chat in the
beginning with more than ordinary kindness, to amuse
him a little ; and then, in the midst of the flattering
/ calm, to burst upon him like an earthquake, and over-
. ''whelm him with a sense of his 'own baseness. This
being resolved upon, my wife undertook to manage
the business herself, as she really had some talents
for such an undertaking. We saw him approach : he
entered, drew a chair, and sat down. ".A fine
#
xv MR. BURCHELL'S VILLAINY DETECTED 125
day, Mr. Burchell." — " A very fine day, Doctor ; though
I fancy we shall have some rain by the shooting of my
corns." — " The shooting of your horns ! " cried my
wife, in a loud fit of laughter, and then asked pardon
for being fond of a joke. " Dear Madam," replied he,
"JL pardon you with all my heart, for I protest I should
not have thought it a joke had you not told me." —
" Perhaps not, Sir," cried my wife, winking at us ; " and
yet I dare say you can tell us how many jokes go to
an ounce." — " I fancy, Madam," returned Burchell, " you
have been reading a jest book this morning, that ounce
of jokes is so very good a conceit ; and yet, Madam, I
had rather see half an ounce of understanding." — " I
believe you might," cried my wife, still smiling at us,
though the laugh was against her ; - " and yet I have
seen some men pretend to understanding that have very
little." — " And no doubt," returned her antagonist, " you
have known ladies set up for wit that had none."
I quickly began to find that my wife was likely to gain
but little at this business ; so I resolved to treat him in
a style of more severity myself. " Both wit and under-
standing," cried I, " are trifles, without integrity ; it is
that which gives value to every character. The ignorant
peasant without fault, is greater than the philosopher
with many ; for what is genius or courage without an
heart ?
"' An honest man's the noblest work of God.'"
" I always held that hackneyed maxim of Pope,"
returned Mr. Burchell, " as very unworthy a man of
genius, and a base desertion of his mm superiority.
As the reputation of books is raised, not by their
freedom from defect, but the greatness of their beauties ;
so should that of men be prized-) not for their exemption
126 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
from fault, but the size of those virtues they are
possessed of. The scholar may want prudence, the
statesman may have pride, and the champion ferocity ;
but shall we prefer to these the low mechanic, who
laboriously plods through life without censure or
applause ? We might as well prefer the tame correct
paintings of the Flemish school to the erroneous but
sublime animations of the Roman pencil."
" Sir," replied I, " your present observation is just,
when there are shining virtues and minute defects ;
but when it appears that great vices are opposed in
the same mind to as extraordinary virtues, such a
character deserves contempt."
" Perhaps/' cried he, " there may be some such
monsters as you describe, of great vices joined to great
virtues ; yet in. my progress through life, I never yet
found one instance of their existence : on the contrary,
I have ever perceived, that where the mind was
capacious, the affections were good. And indeed
Providence seems kindly our friend in this, particular, .
thus to debilitate the understanding where the heart is
corrupt, and diminish the power where there is the
will to do mischief. This rule seems to extend even
to other animals : the little vermin race are ever
treacherous, cruel, and cowardly, whilst those endowed
with strength and power are generous, brave, and
gentle."
" These observations sound well," returned I, " and
yet it would be easy this moment to point out a man,"
and I fixed my eye steadfastly upon him, " whose head
and heart form a most detestable contrast. Ay, Sir,"
continued I, raising my voice, " and I am glad to have
this opportunity of detecting him in the midst of his
xv MR. BURCHELL'S VILLAINY DETECTED 127
fancied security. Do you know this, Sir, this pocket-
book ? " — " Yes, Sir," returned he, with a face of im-
penetrable assurance, "that pocket-book* is mine, and I
am glad you have found it." — " And do you know,"
cried I, " this letter ? Nay, never falter, man ; but
look me full in the face : I say, do you know this
letter ? " — " That letter ? " returned he ; " yes, it was I
that wrote that letter." — "And how could you," said I,
" so basely, so ungratefully presume to write this
letter ? " — " And how came you," replied he, with looks
of unparalleled effrontery, " so basely to presume to
break open this letter ? Don't you know, now, I could
hang you all for this ? All that I have to do is to
swear at the next Justice's that you have been guilty
of breaking open the lock of my pocket-book, and so
hang you all up at his door." This piece of unex-
pected insolence raised me to such a pitch, that I
could scarce govern my passion. " Ungrateful wretch !
begone, and no longer pollute my dwelling with thy
baseness ! begone, and never let me see thee again !
Go from my door, and the only punishment I wish
thee is an alarmed conscience, which will be a sufficient
tormentor ! " So saying, I threw him his pocket-book,
which he took up with a smile, and shutting the clasps
with the utmost composure, left us, quite astonished at
the serenity of his assurance. My wife was particularly
enraged that nothing could make him angry, or make
him seem ashamed of his villainies. " My dear," cried
I, willing to calm those passions that had been raised
too high among us, "we are not to be surprised that
bad men want shame : they only blush at being
detected in doing good, but glory in their vices.
" Guilt and Shame, says the allegory, were at first
128
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
companions, and, in the beginning of their journey,
inseparably kept together. But their union was soon
found to be disagreeable and inconvenient to both'.
Guilt gave Shame frequent uneasiness, and Shame often
betrayed the secret conspiracies of Guilt. After long
disagreement, therefore, they at length consented to
part for ever. Guilt boldly walked forward alone, to
overtake Fate, that went before in the shape of an
executioner ; but Shame, being naturally timorous,
returned back to keep company with Virtue, which in
the beginning of their jaurney they had left behind.
Thus, my children, after men have travelled through a
few stages in vice, Shame forsakes them, and returns
back to wait upon the few virtues they have still
remaining."
cfamtfy (tore Jkit] cc/S'c/l if oZpoaTtc/' 'zccffC Gr&T&recrfer \
{\dfeber might have been Sophia's sensations,
the rest of the family was easily consoled for
Mr. Burchell's absence by the company of
our landlord, whose visits now became more
frequent, and longer. Though he had been dis-
appointed in procuring my daughters the amuse-
ments of the town, as he designed, he took every
opportunity of supplying them with those little re-
creations which our retirement would admit of. He
usually came in the morning ; and, while my son and
I followed our occupations abroad, he sat with the
family at home, and amused them by describing the
town, with every part of which he was particularly
acquainted. He could repeat all the observations that
were retailed in the atmosphere of the playhouses, and
had all the good things of the high wits by rote, long""
before they made their way into the jest books. The
intervals between conversation were employed in
K
X3Q
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
teaching my daughters piquet, or sometimes in setting
my two little ones to box, to make them sharps as he
called it : but the hopes of having him for a son-in-law
in some measure blinded us to all his imperfections.
It must be owned, that my wife laid a thousand schemes
to entrap him ; or, to speak more tenderly, used every
art to magnify the merit of her daughter. If the cakes
at tea ate short and crisp, they were made by Olivia ;
if the gooseberry wine was well knit, the gooseberries
were of her gathering : it was her fingers which gave
the pickles their peculiar green ; and, in the composition
of a pudding, it was her judgment that mixed the
ingredients. Then the poor woman would sometimes
tell the Squire, that she thought him and Olivia ex-
tremely of a size, and would bid both stand up to see
which was tallest. These instances of cunning, which
she thought impenetrable, yet which everybody saw
through, were very pleasing to our benefactor, who
xvi THE FAMILY USE ART*
131
gave every day some new proofs of his passion, which,
though they had not arisen to proposals of marriage,
yet we thought fell but little short of it ; and his slow-
ness was attributed sometimes to native bashfulness, and
sometimes to his fear of offending his uncle. An
occurrence, however, which happened soon after, put
it beyond a doubt that he designed to become one of
our family; my wife even regarded it as an absolute
promise.
My wife and daughters happening to return a visit
.to neighbour Flamborough's, found that family had
lately got their pictures drawn by a JLj rnng r, who
travelled the country, and took likenesses for fifteen
shillings a head. As this family and ours had long a
sort of rivalry in point of taste, our spirit took the
alarm at this stolen march upon us ; and, notwith-
standing all I could say, and I said much, it was
resolved that we should have our pictures done too.
Having, therefore, engaged the limner, — for what
could I do ? — our next deliberation was to show the
superiority of our taste in the attitudes. As for our
neighbour's family, there were seven of them, and they
were drawn with seven oranges, — a thing quite out of
taste, no variety in life, no composition in the world.
We desired to have something in a brighter style ; and,
after many debates, at length came to a unanimous
resolution of being drawn together, in one large historical
family piece. This would be cheaper, since one frame
would serve for all, and it would be infinitely more
genteel ; for all families of any taste were now drawn
in the same manner. As we did not immediately
recollect an historical subject to hit us, we were contented
each with being drawn as independent historical figures.
132
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
My wife desired to be represented as Venus, and the
painter was desired not to be too frugal of his diamonds
in her stomacher and hair. Her two little ones were
to be as Cupids by her side ; 'while I, in my gown and
band, was to present her with my books on the Whis-
tonian controversy. Olivia would be drawn as an
Amazon, sitting upon a bank of flowers, dressed in a
cCraunj &J et fy A ' °* •***> &f*> fiif&u*A& ~fa***f] j^****
green Joseph, richly laced with gold, and a whip in her
hand. Sophia was to be a shepherdess, with as many
sheep as the painter could put in for nothing ; and
Moses was to be dressed out with a hat and white
feather. Our taste so much pleased the Squire, that he
insisted on being put in as one of the family, in the
character of Alexander the Great, at Olivia's feet.
This was considered by us all as an indication of his
desire to be introduced into the family, nor could we
xvi THE FAMILY USE ART 133
refuse his request. The painter was therefore set to
work, and, as he wrought with assiduity and expedition,
in less than four days the whole was completed. The
piece was large, and, it must be owned, he did not spare
his colours ; for which my wife gave him great enco-
miums. We were all perfectly satisfied with his perform-
ance ; but an unfortunate circumstance which had not
occurred till the picture was finished, now struck us
with dismay. It was so very large, that we had no
place in the house to fix it. How we all came to dis-
regard so material a point is inconceivable ; but certain
it is, we had been all greatly remiss. The picture,
therefore, instead of gratifying our vanity, as we hoped,
leaned, in a most mortifying manner, against the kitchen
wall, where the canvas was stretched and painted, much
too large to be got through any of the doors, and the
jest of all our neighbours. One compared it to Robin-
son Crusoe's long-boat, too large to be removed ; another
thought it more resembled a reel in a bottle : some
wondered how it could be got out, but still more were
amazed how it ever got in.
But though it excited the ridicule of some, it effect-
ually raised more malicious suggestions in many. The
Squire's portrait being found uriited with ours was an
honour too great to escape envy. Scandalous whispers
began to circulate at our expense, and our tranquillity
was continually disturbed by persons, who came as
friends, to tell us what was said of us by enemies.
TheSe reports we always .resented with becoming spirit ; .
but scandal ever improves by opposition.
v We once again, therefore, entered into a consultation
upon obviating the malice of our enemies, and at last
came to a resolution which had too much cunning
134 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
to give me entire satisfaction. It was this : as our
principal object was to discover the honour of Mr.
Thornhill's addresses, my wife undertook to sound him
by pretending to ask his advice in the choice of a
husband for her eldest daughter. If this was not found
sufficient to induce him to a declaration, it was then
resolved to terrify him with a rival. To this last step,
however, I would by no means give my consent, till
Olivia gave me. the most solemn assurances that she
would marry the person provided to rival him upon
this occasion, if he did not prevent it by taking her
himself. Such was the scheme laid, which, though I
did not strenuously oppose, I did not entirely approve.
The next time, therefore, that Mr. Thornhill came
to see us, my girls took care to be out of the way, in
order to give their mamma an opportunity of putting
her scheme in execution ; but they only retired to
the next room, from whence they could overhear the
whole conversation. My wife artfully introduced it,
by observing, that one of the Miss Flamboroughs was
like to have a very good match of it in Mr. Spanker.
To this the Squire assenting, she proceeded to remark
that they who had warm fortunes were always sure of
getting good husbands : " But Heaven help," continued
she, " the girls that have none ! What signifies beauty,
Mr. Thornhill ? or what signifies all the virtue, and all
the qualifications in the world, in this age of self-
interest ? It is not, What is she ? but, What has she ?
is all the cry."
" Madam," returned he, " I highly approve the
justice, as well as the novelty, of your remarks ; and if
I were a king, it should be otherwise. It should then,
indeed, be fine times with the girls without fortunes:
xvi -
THE FAMILY USE ART
135
our two young ladies should be the first for whom I
would provide."
" Ah, Sir," returned my wife, " you are pleased to be
facetious : but I wish I
were a queen, and then I
know where my eldest
daughter should look for
a husband. But, now
that you have put it into
my head, seriously, Mr.
Thornhill, can't you re-
commend me a proper
husband for her? She
is now nineteen years old,
well grown and well edu-
cated, and in my humble
opinion, does not want for
parts."
"Madam," replied he,
" if I were to choose, I
would find out a person
possessed of every accom-
plishment that can make
an angel happy. One
with prudence, fortune,
taste, and sincerity; such,
Madam, would be, in my
opinion, the proper hus- i^
band." — " Ay, Sir," said
she, " but do you know '
of any such person?" — "No, Madam," returned he,
" it is impossible to know any person that deserves
to be her husband : she's too great a treasure for one
136 . THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap, xvi
man's possession ; she's a goddess ! Upon my soul, I
speak what I think — she's an • angel ! " — " Ah, Mr.
Thornhill, you only flatter my poor girl : but we have
been thinking of marrying her to one of your tenants,
whose mother is lately dead, and who wants a manager ;
you know whom I mean, — Farmer Williams ; a warm
man, Mr. Thornhill, able to give her good bread, and
who has several times made her proposals " (which
was actually the case) ; " but, Sir," concluded she, " I
should be glad to have your approbation of our choice."
— " How, Madam," replied he, " my approbation ! — my
approbation of such a choice ! Never. What ! sacrifice
so much beauty, and sense, and goodness, to a creature
insensible of the blessing ! Excuse me, I can never
approve of such a piece of injustice. And I have
my reasons." — " Indeed, Sir," cried Deborah, " if you
have your reasons, that's another affair ; but I should
be glad to know those reasons." — " Excuse me, Madam,"
returned he, " they lie too deep for discovery " (laying
his hand upon his bosom) ; " they remain buried, riveted
here." ^
After he was gone, upon a general consultation, we
could not tell what to make of these fine sentiments.
Olivia considered them as instances of the most exalted
passion ; but I was not quite so sanguine : it seemed
to me pretty plain; that they had more of love than
matrimony in them ; yet, whatever they might portend,
it was resolved to prosecute the scheme of Farmer
Williams, who, from my daughter's first appearance in
the country, had paid her his addresses.
CfictfiterSXE.
> JcarceCy any Virtcce JomndC to resCft$)Q
Jocoer cf(onq and fi(<2as(n& c/emfifattori.
\f I only studied my child's real happiness,
the assiduity of Mr. Williams pleased
l me, as he was in easy circumstances, prudent,
and sincere. It required but very little en-
couragement to revive his former passion ; so
that in an evening or two he and Mr. Thornhill
met at our house, and surveyed each other for
some time with looks of anger ; but Williams
owed his landlord no rent, and little regarded his
indignation. Olivia, on her side, acted the
coquette to perfection, if that might be called
acting which was her real character, pretending
to lavish all her tenderness on her new lover.
Mr. Thornhill appeared quite dejected at this
preference, and with a pensive air took leave,
though I own it puzzled me to find him in so
much pain as he appeared to be, when he
had it in his power so easily to re-
k move the cause, by declaring an hon-
138 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
i
ourable passion. But whatever uneasiness he seemed
to endure, it could easily be perceived that Olivia's
anguish was still greater. After any of these inter-
views between her lovers, of which there were several,
she usually retired to solitude, and there indulged her
grief. It was in such a situation I found her one
evening, after she had been for some time supporting
a fictitious gaiety. " You now see, my .child," said I,
"that your confidence in Mr. Thornhill's passion •was
all a dream : he permits the rivalry of another, every
way his inferior, though he knows it lies in his power
to secure you to himself by a candid declaration."
— " Yes, papa," returned she ; " but he has his reasons
for this delay : I know he has. The sincerity of his
looks and words convinces me of his real esteem. A
short time, I hope, will discover the generosity of his
sentiments, and convince you that my opinion of him
has been more just than yours." — " Olivia, my darling,"
returned I, " every scheme that has been hitherto
pursued to compel him to a declaration has been
proposed and planned by yourself; nor can you in the
least say that I have constrained you. But you must
not suppose, my dear r that I will ever be instrumental
in suffering his honest rival to be the dupe of your ill-
placed passion. Whatever time you require to bring
your fancied admirer to an explanation shall be granted ;
but at the expiration of that term, if he is still regardless,
I must absolutely insist that honest Mr. Williams shall
be rewarded for his fidelity. The character which I
have hitherto supported in life demands this from me,-
and my tenderness as a parent shall never influence my
integrity as a man. Name, then, your day ; let it be
as distant as you think proper ; and in the meantime,
xvn PLEASING TEMPTATION SCARCELY RESISTIBLE 139
take care to let Mr. Thornhill know the exact time on
which I design delivering you up to another. If he
really loves you, his own good sense will readily suggest
that there is but one method alone to prevent his losing
you for ever." This proposal, which she could not
avoid considering as perfectly just, was readily agreed
to. She again renewed her most positive promise of
marrying Mr. Williams, in case of the other's insensi-
bility ; and at the next opportunity, in Mr. Thornhill's
presence, that day month was fixed upon for her
nuptials with his rival.
Such vigorous proceedings seemed to redouble Mr.
Thornhill's anxiety : but what Olivia really felt gave
me some uneasiness. In this struggle between prudence
and passion, her vivacity quite forsook her, and every
opportunity of solitude was sought, and spent in tears.
One week passed away; but Mr. Thornhill made no efforts
to restrain her nuptials. The succeeding week he was
still^as^iduous ; but not more open. On the third, he
discontinued his visits entirely, and instead of my
daughter testifying any impatience, as I expected, she
seemed to retain a pensive tranquillity, which I looked
upon as resignation. For my own part, I was now
sincerely pleased with thinking that my child was going
to be secured in a continuance of competence and peace,
and frequently applauded her resolution, in preferring
happiness to ostentation.
It was within about four days of her intended
nuptials, that my little family at night were gathered
round a charming fire, telling stories of the past, and
laying schemes for the future : busied in forming a
thousand projects, and laughing at whatever folly came
uppermost. "Well, Moses," cried I, "we shall soon,
140
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
my boy, have a wedding in the family : what is your
opinion of matters and things in general?'' — "My
opinion, father, is, that all things go on very well ; and
I was just now thinking, that when sister Livy is
/married to Farmer Williams we shall then have the
loan of his cider-press and brewing-tubs for nothing." —
" That we shall, Moses," cried I, " and • he will sing us
Death and the Lady, to raise our spirits into the
bargain." — " He has taught that song to our Dick,"
cried Moses ; " and I think he goes through it very
prettily." — " Does he so ? " cried I ; " then let us have
it : where is little Dick ? let him up with it boldly." —
" My brother Dick," cried Bill, my youngest, " is just
gone out with sister Livy : but Mr. Williams has
taught me two songs, and I'll sing them for you, papa.
Which song do you choose, The dying Swan, or the
Elegy on the death of a mad dog? " — " The elegy, child,
by all means," said I ; " I never heard that yet : and
Deborah, my life, grief, you know, is dry ; let us have
a bottle of the best gooseberry wine, to keep up our
spirits. I have wept so much at all sorts of elegies
of late, that without an enlivening glass I am sure this
will overcome me ; and Sophy, love, take your guitar,
and thrum in with the boy a little."
AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG
GOOD people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song,
And if you find it wondrous short,
It cannot hold you long.
In Islington there was a man,
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran,
Whene'er he went to pray.
xvii PLEASING TEMPTATION SCARCELY RESISTIBLE i 4 i
A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes ;
The naked every day he clad,
When he put on his clothes.
And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.
This dog and man at first were friends ;
But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain some private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man.
Around from all the neighbouring streets
The wond'ring neighbours ran,
And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man.
The wound it seem'd both sore and sad
To every Christian eye ;
And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light,
That show'd the rogues they lied :
The man recover'd of the bite —
The dog it was that died.
" A very good boy, Bill, upon my word ; and an
elegy that may truly be called tragical. Come, my
children, here's Bill's health, and may he one day be a
bishop!"
" With all my heart," cried my wife : " and if he
but preaches as well as he sings, I make no doubt of
him. The most of his family, by the mother's side,""
could sing a good song : it was a common saying in
our country, that the family of the Blenkinsops could
never look straight before them, nor the Hugginsons
blow out a candle ; that there were none of the Gro-
^pet
142 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap
grams but could sing a song, or of the Marjorams but
could tell a story." — " However that be," cried I, " the
most vulgar ballad of them all generally pleases me
better than the fine modern odes, and things that
rify us in a single stanza, — productions that we at
once detest and praise. — Put the glass to your brother,
Moses. — The great fault of these elegiasts is, that they
are in despair for griefs that give the sensible part of
mankind very little pain. A lady loses her muff, her^
fan, or her lap-dog, and so the silly poet runs home to
versify the disaster." -
" That may be the mode," cried Moses, " in sub-
limer compositions : but the Ranelagh songs that
come down to us are perfectly familiar, and all cast in
the same mould : Colin meets Dolly, and they hold a
dialogue together ; he gives her a fairing to put in her
hair, and she presents him with a nosegay ; and then
they go together to church, where they give good
advice to young nymphs and swains to get married as
fast as they can."
" And very good advice too," cried I ; " and I am
told there is not a place in the world where advice can
be given with so much propriety as there : for as it
persuades us to marry, it also furnishes us with a wife ;
and surely that must be an excellent market, my boy,
where we are told what we want, and supplied with it
when wanting."
" Yes, Sir," returned Moses, " and I know but of two
such markets for wives in Europe, — Ranelagh in
England, and Fontarabia in Spain. The Spanish
market is open once a year; but our English wives
are saleable every night."
" You are right, my boy," cried his mother : " Old
xvii PLEASING TEMPTATION SCARCELY RESISTIBLE 143
England is the only place in the world for husbands
to get wives." — " And for wives to manage their
husbands," interrupted I. " It is a proverb abroad,
that if a bridge were built across the sea, all the ladies
of the Continent would come over to take pattern from
ours ; for there are no such wives in Europe as our
own. But let us have one bottle more, Deborah, my
life ; and, Moses, give us a good song. What thanks
do we not owe to Heaven for thus bestowing tran-
quillity, health, and competence ! I think myself
happier now than the greatest monarch upon earth.
He has no such fireside, nor such pleasant faces about
it. Yes, Deborah, we are now growing old ; but the
evening of our life is likely to be happy. We are^
descended from ancestors that knew no stain, and we
shall leave a good and virtuous race of children behind
us. While we live, they will be our support and our
pleasure here ; and when we die, they will transmit
our honour untainted to posterity. Come, my son, we
wait for a song : let us have a chorus. But where is
my darling Olivia? that little cherub's voice is always
sweetest in the concert." Just as I spoke Dick came
running in. " O papa, papa, she is gone from us, she
is gone from us ; my sister Livy is gone from us for
ever ! " — " Gone, child ! " — " Yes, she is gone off with
two gentlemen in a post-chaise, and one of them kissed
her, and said he would die for her: and she cried very
much, and was for coming back ; but he persuaded her
again, and she went into the chaise, and said, ' Oh,
what ' will my poor papa do when he knows I am
undone ! ' " — " Now, then," cried I, " my children, go
and be miserable ; for we shall never enjoy one hour
more. And oh, may Heaven's everlasting fury light
i 4 4
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
CHAP.
upon him and his ! — thus to rob me of my child !
And sure it will, for taking back my sweet innocent
that I was leading up to Heaven. Such sincerity as
my child was possessed of! But all our earthly
happiness is now over ! Go, my children, go and be
miserable and infamous ; for my heart is broken within
me ! " — -" Father," cried my son, " is this your fortitude?"
— " Fortitude, child ? — yes, he shall see I have fortitude !
Bring me my pistols. I'll pursue the traitor — while
he is on earth Til pursue him. Old as I am, he shall
find I can sting him yet. The villain — the perfidious
villain ! " I had by this time reached down my pistols.
xvii PLEASING TEMPTATION SCARCELY RESISTIBLE 145
when my poor wife, whose passions were not so strong*
as mine, caught me in her arms. " My dearest, dearest
husband ! " cried she, " the Bible is the only weapon
that is fit for your old hands now. Open that, my
love, and read our anguish into patience, for she has
vilely deceived us." — " Indeed, Sir," resumed my son,
after a pause, " your rage is too violent and unbecoming.
You should be my mother's comforter, and you increase
her pain. It ill suited you and your reverend character
thus to curse your greatest enemy : you should not
have cursed him, villain as he is." — " I did not curse
him child, did I ? " — " Indeed, Sir, you did ; you cursed
him twice." — " Then may Heaven forgive me and him
if I did I And now, my son, I see it was more than
* human benevolence that first taught us to bless our
enemies : Blessed be His holy name for all the good
He hath given, and for all that He hath taken away.
But it is not — it is not a small distress that can wring
tears from these old eyes, that have not wept for so
many years. My child ! to undo my darling ! — May
confusion seize Heaven forgive me ! what am I
about to say ! — you may remember, my love, how good
she was, and how charming : till this vile moment all
her care was to make us happy. Had she but died !
But she is gone, the honour of our family contaminated,
and I must look out for happiness in other worlds than
here. But, my child, you saw them go off : perhaps he
forced her away ? If he forced her, she may yet be
innocent." — "Ah, no, Sir," cried the child; "he only
kissed her, and called her his angel, and she wept very
much, and leaned upon his arm, and they drove off
very fast." — " She's an ungrateful creature," cried my
wife, who could scarcely speak for weeping, " to use us
L
146
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
thus. She never had the least constraint put upon her
affections. The vile strumpet has basely deserted her
parents without any provocation, thus to bring your
grey hairs to the grave ; and I must shortly follow."
In this manner that night, the first of our real mis-
fortunes, was spent in the bitterness of complaint, and
ill -supported sallies of enthusiasm. I determined,
however, to find out our betrayer, wherever he was, and
vfjey dVooe °/jf *>t*Y ,fi&&
reproach his baseness. The next morning we missed
our wretched child at breakfast, where she used to give
life and cheerfulness to us all. My wife, as before,
attempted to ease her heart by reproaches. " Never,"
cried she, " shall that vilest .stain of our family again
darken these* harmless doors. I will never call her
daughter more. No, let the strumpet live with her
vile seducer: she may- bring us to shame, but she shall
never more deceive us."
xvii PLEASING TEMPTATION SCARCELY RESISTIBLE 147
" Wife," said I, " do . not talk thus hardly : my
detestation of her guilt is as great as yours ; but ever
shall this house and this heart be open to a poor
returning repentant sinner. The sooner she returns
from her trangressions, the more welcome shall she be
to me. For the first time the very best may err ; art
may persuade, and novelty spread out its charm. The
first fault is the child of simplicity, but every other, the
offspring of guilt. Yes, the wretched creature shall be
welcome to this heart and this house, though stained
with ten thousand vices. I will again hearken to the
music of her voice, again will I hang fondly on her
bosom, if I find but repentance there. My son, bring
hither my Bible and my staff: I will pursue her,
wherever she is ; and though I cannot save her from
shame, I may prevent the continuance of iniquity."
MM
77\ov#f£ the child could not describe the
gentleman's person who handed his
sister into the post-chaise, yet my suspicions
fell entirely upon our young landlord, whose
character for such intrigues was but too well
known. I therefore directed my steps towards Thorn-
hill Castle, resolving to upbraid him, and, if possible, to
bring back my daughter : but before I had reached his
seat, I was met by one of my parishioners, who said he
saw a young lady resembling my daughter in a post-
chaise with a gentleman, whom by the description I
could only guess to be Mr. Burchell, and that they
drove very fast. This information, however, did by no
means satisfy me. I therefore went to the young
Squire's, and, though it was yet early, insisted upon
seeing him immediately. He soon appeared with the
most open familiar air, and seemed perfectly amazed
CHAP. XVIII
TO RECLAIM A LOST CHILD
149
at my daughter's elopement, protesting, upon his
honour, that he was quite a stranger to it. I now
therefore condemned my former suspicions, and could'
turn them only on Mr. Burchell, who, I recollected, had
of late several private conferences with her ; but the
appearance of another witness left me no room to doubt
his villainy, who averred, that he and my daughter
were actually gone towards the Wells, about thirty
miles off, where there was a great deal of company.
Being driven to that state of mind in which we all are
more ready to act precipitately than to reason right,- 1
never debated with myself whether these accounts
might not have been given by persons purposely placed
150 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
in my way to mislead me, but resolved to pursue my
daughter and her fancied deluder thither. I walked
along with earnestness, and inquired of several by the
way ; but received no accounts, till, entering the town,
I was met by a person on horseback, whom I re-
membered to have seen at the Squire's, and he assured
me that if I followed them to the races, which were
but thirty miles farther, I might depend upon over-
taking them ; for he had seen them dance there the
night before, and the whole assembly seemed charmed
with my daughter's performance. Early the next day,
I walked forward to the races, and about four in the
afternoon I came upon the course. The company
made a very brilliant appearance, all earnestly employed
in one pursuit, — that of pleasure : how different from
mine, — that of reclaiming a lost child to virtue ! I
thought I perceived Mr. Burchell at some distance
from me ; but, as if he dreaded an interview, upon my
approaching him he mixed among a crowd, and I saw
him no more.
I now reflected that it would be to no purpose to
continue my pursuit farther, and resolved to return
home to an innocent family, who wanted my assistance.
But the agitations of my mind, and the fatigues I had
undergone, threw me into a fever, the symptoms of which
I perceived before I came off the course. This was
another unexpected stroke, as I was more than seventy
miles distant from home : however, I retired to a little
alehouse by the roadside ; and in this place, the usual
retreat of indigence and frugality, I laid me down
patiently to wait the issue of my disorder. I languished
here for near three weeks ; but at last my constitution
prevailed, though I was unprovided with money to
xviii TO RECLAIM A LOST CHILD 151
defray the expenses of my entertainment. It is
possible the anxiety from this last circumstance alone
might have brought on a relapse, had I not been
supplied by a traveller, who stopped to take a cursory
refreshment. This person was no other than the
philanthropic bookseller in St. Paul's Churchyard, who
has written so many little books for children : he called
himself their friend, but he was the friend of all mankind.
He was no sooner alighted, but he was in haste to
be gone ; for he was ever on business of the utmost
importance, and was at that time actually compiling
materials for the history of one Mr. Thomas Trip. I
immediately recollected this good-natured man's red
pimpled face ; for he had published for me against the
Deuterogamists of the age ; and from him I borrowed
a few pieces, to be paid at my return. Leaving the
inn, therefore, as I was yet but weak, I resolved to
return home by easy journeys of ten miles a day. My
health and usual tranquillity were almost restored, and
I now condemned that pride which had made me
refractory to the hand of correction. Man little knows
what calamities are beyond his patience to bear, till he
tries them : as in ascending the heights of ambition,
which look bright from below, every step we rise shows
us some new and gloomy prospect of hidden disappoint-
ment ; so in our descent from the summits of pleasure,
though the vale of misery below may appear at first
dark and gloomy, yet the busy mind; still attentive to
its own amusement, finds, as we descend, something to
flatter and to please. Still as we approach, the darkest
objects appear to brighten, and the mental eye becomes
adapted to its gloomy situation.
I now proceeded forward, and had walked about
152 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
two hours, when I perceived what appeared at a distance
like a waggon, which I was resolved to overtake ; but
when I came up with it, found it to be a strolling
company's cart, that was carrying their scenes and other
theatrical furniture to the next village, where they were
to exhibit. The cart was attended only by the person
who drove it, and one of the company, as the rest of
the players were to follow the ensuing day. " Good
company upon the road," says the proverb, " is the
shortest cut." I therefore entered into conversation
with the poor player ; and as I once had some
theatrical powers myself, I jd issertg d on such topics with
my usual freedom : but as I was pretty much un-
acquainted with the present state of the stage, I
demanded who were the present theatrical writers in
° vogue — who the JDryplens and Qtw^ays^of the day? —
" I fancy, Sir," cried the player, " few of our modern
dramatists would think themselves much honoured, by
being compared to the writers you mention. Dryden's
and Rowe's manner, Sir, are quite out of fashion : our
taste has gone back a whole century ; Fletcher, Ben
* Jonson, and all the plays of Shakespeare are the only
things that go down." — " How," cried I, "is it possible
the present age can be pleased with that antiquated
dialect, that obsolete humour, those overcharged
characters, which abound in the works you mention ? "
— " Sir," returned my companion, " the public think
nothing about dialect or humour, or character, for that
is none of their business ; they only go to be amused,
and find themselves happy when they can enjoy a
/'pantomime, under the sanction of Jonson's or Shake-
speare's name." — " So then, I suppose," cried I, " that
Our modern dramatists are rather imitators of Shake-
XVIII
TO RECLAIM A LOST CHILD
153
speare than of nature." — " To say the truth," returned
my companion, " I don't know that they imitate any-
thing at all ; nor, indeed, does the public require it of
them ; it is not the composition of the piece, but the
^number of starts and attitudes that may be introduced
into it, that elicits applause. I have known a piece,
with not one jest in the whole,
shrugged into popularity, and an-
other saved, by the poet's throwing
in a fit of the gripes. No, Sir, the
works of Congreve and Farquhar
have too much wit in them for the
present taste ; our modern dialect
is much more natural."
By this time, the equipage of
the strolling company was arrived
at the village, which, it seems, had
been apprised of our approach, and
was come out to gaze at us ; for
my companion observed, that stroll-
ers always have more spectators
without doors than within. I did
not consider the impropriety of my
being in such company, till I saw ^'
a mob gather about me. I there-
fore took shelter, as fast as possible, in the first alehouse
that offered ; and being shown into the common room,
was accosted by a very well-dressed gentleman, who
demanded whether I was the real chaplain of the
company, or whether it was only to be my masquerade
character in the play? Upon informing him of the
truth, and that I did not belong, in any sort, to the
company, he was condescending enough to desire me
154
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
CHAP. XVIII
and the player to partake in a bowl^of punch, over
which he discussed modern politics with great earnest-
ness and interest. I set him down, in my own mind,
for nothing less than a parliament-man at least ; but
was almost confirmed in my conjectures, when, upon
asking what there was in the house for supper, he
insisted that the player and I should sup with him at
his house ; with which request, after some entreaties,
we were prevailed on to comply.
S M~
.PIT
Chapter ^a&
j]r\£ house where we were to be entertained
lying at a small distance from the village,
our inviter observed, that as the coach was
not ready, he would conduct us on foot ;
and we soon arrived at one of the most magnificent
mansions I had seen in that part of the country. The
apartment into which we were shown was perfectly
elegant and modern : he went to give orders for supper,
while the player, with a wink, observed that we were
perfectly in luck. Our entertainer soon returned ; an
elegant supper was brought in ; two or three ladies in
easy dishabille were introduced, and the conversation
began with some sprightliness. Politics, however, was
the subject on which our entertainer chiefly expatiated ;
for he asserted that liberty was at once his boast and
his terror. After the cloth was removed, he asked me
if I had seen .the last Monitor ? to which replying in
the negative, -" What ! nor the Auditor, I suppose ? "
cried he. " Neither, Sir," returned I. " That's strange,
156. THE VICAR OF WAKEFIEID ' j . chap
very strange ! " replied my entertainer. KNow, I read
all the politics that come out : the Daily, the Public,
the Ledger, the Chronicle, the London Evening, the
Whitehall Evening, the seventeen Magazines, and the
two Reviews ; and, though they hate each other, I love
them all. Liberty, Sir, liberty is the Briton's boast !
and, by all my coal-mines in Cornwall, I reverence its
guardians." — " Then, it is to be hoped," cried I, " you
reverence the king ? " — " Yes," returned my entertainer,
" when he does what we would have him ; but if he
goes on as he has done of late, I'll never trouble myself
more with his matters. I say nothing. I think only.
I could have directed some things better. I don't
xix DESCRIPTION OF A DISCONTENTED PERSON 157
think there has been a sufficient number of advisers :
he should advise with every person willing to give him
advice, and then we should have things done in another-
guess manner."
" I wish," cried I, " that such intruding advisers were
fixed in the pillory. It should be the duty of honest
men to assist the weaker side of our constitution, that
sacred power that has for some years been every day
declining, and losing its due share of influence in the
State. But these ignorants still continue the same cry
of liberty, and, if they have any weight, basely throw
it into the subsiding scale."
" How ! " cried one of the ladies, " do I live to see
one so base, so sordid, as to be an enemy to liberty,
and a defender of tyrants ? Liberty, that sacred gift
of Heaven, that glorious privilege of Britons ! "
" Can it be possible," cried our entertainer, " that
there should be any found at present advocates for
slavery ? Any who are for meanly giving up the
privileges of Britons ? Can any, Sir, be so abject ? "
" No, Sir," replied I, " I am for liberty ! that attribute
of gods ! Glorious liberty ! that theme of modern
declamation ! I would have all men kings ! I would
be a king myself. We have all naturally an equal
right to the throne : we are all originally equal. This
is my opinion, and was once the opinion of a set of
'honest men who were called Levellers. They tried to
erect themselves into a community, where all should be
equally free. But, alas ! it would never answer : for
there were some among them stronger, and some more
cunning, than others, and these became masters of the
rest ; for, as sure as your groom rides your horses,
because he is a cunninger animal than they, so surely
158 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
will the animal that is cunninger or stronger than he 5
sit upon his shoulders in turn. Since, then, it is entailed
upon humanity to submit, and some are born to com-
mand and others to obey, the question is, as there must
be tyrants, whether it is better to have them in the
same house with us, or in the same village, or, still
farther off in the metropolis. Now, Sir, for my own
part, as I naturally hate the face of a tyrant, the farther
off he is removed from me the better pleased am I.
The generality of mankind also are of my way of
thinking, and have unanimously created one king,
whose election at once diminishes the number of
tyrants, and puts tyranny at the greatest distance from
the greatest number of people. Now, the great, who
were tyrants themselves before the election of one
tyrant, are naturally averse to a power raised over
them, and whose weight must ever lean heaviest on
the subordinate orders. It is the interest of the great,
therefore, to diminish kingly power as much as possible ;
because, whatever they take from that is naturally
restored to themselves ; and all they have to do in the
state • is to undermine the single tyrant, by which they
resume their primeval authority. Now, the state may
be so circumstanced, or its laws may be so disposed, or
its men of opulence so minded, as all to conspire in
carrying on this business of undermining monarchy.
For, in the first place, if the circumstances of our state
be such as to favour the accumulation of wealth, and
make the opulent still more rich, this will increase
their ambition. An accumulation of wealth, however,
must necessarily be the consequence, when, as at
present, more riches flow in from external commerce
than arise from internal industry ; for external com-
xix DESCRIPTION OF A DISCONTENTED PERSON 159
merce can only be managed to advantage by the rich,
and they have also at the same time all the emoluments
arising from internal industry ; so that the rich, with
us, have two sources of wealth, whereas the poor have
but one. For this reason, wealth, in all commercial
states, is found to accumulate ; and all such have
hitherto in time become aristocratical. Again, the
very laws also of this country may contribute to the
accumulation of wealth ; as when, by their means, the
natural ties that bind the rich and poor together are
broken, and it is ordained that the rich shall only
marry with the rich ; or when the learned are held
unqualified to serve their country as counsellors, merely
from a defect of opulence, and wealth is thus made the
object of a wise man's ambition ; by these means, I
say, and such means as these, riches will accumulate.
Now, the possessor of accumulated wealth, when
furnished with the necessaries and pleasures of life, has
no other method to employ the superfluity of his
fortune but in purchasing power. That is, differently
speaking, in making dependants, by purchasing the
liberty of the needy or the venal, of men who are
willing to bear the mortification of contiguous tyranny
for bread. Thus each very opulent man generally
gathers round him a circle of the poorest of the people ;
and the .polity, abounding in accumulated wealth may
be compared to a Cartesian system, each orb with a
vortex of its own. Those, however, who are willing to
move in a great man's vortex, are only such as must be
slaves, the rabble of mankind, whose souls and whose
education are adapted to servitude, and who know
nothing of liberty except the name. But there must
still be a large number of the people without the sphere of
160 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
the opulent man's influence ; namely, that order of
men which subsists between the very rich and the very
rabble ; those men who are possessed of too large
fortunes to submit to the neighbouring man in power,
and yet are too poor to set up for tyranny themselves.
In this middle order of mankind are generally to be
found all the arts, wisdom, and virtues of society.
This order alone is known to be the true preserver of
freedom, and may be called THE PEOPLE. Now, it
may happen that this middle order of mankind may
lose all its influence in a state, and its voice be in a
manner drowned in that of the rabble : for, if the
fortune sufficient for qualifying a person at present to
give his voice in state affairs be ten times less than was
judged sufficient upon forming the constitution, it is
evident that great numbers of the rabble will thus be
introduced into the political system, and they, ever
moving in the vortex of the great, will follow where
greatness shall direct. In such a state, therefore, all
that the middle order has left is to preserve the
prerogative and privileges of the one principal governor
with the most sacred circumspection. For he divides
the power of the rich, and calls off the great from
falling with tenfold weight on the middle order placed
beneath them. The middle order may be compared
to a town of which the opulent are forming the siege,
and of which the governor from without is hastening
the relief. While the besiegers are in dread of an
enemy over them, it is but natural to offer the towns-
men the most specious terms ; to flatter them with
sounds, and amuse them with privileges ; but if they
once defeat the governor from behind, the walls of the
town will be but a small defence to its inhabitants.
xix DESCRIPTION OF- A DISCONTENTED PERSON
161
What they may ^heir* expect, may be seen by turning
our eyes to Holland; Genoa, or Venice, where the laws
govern the poor, Shd the>rich goVern the law. I am
then for, and would die for monarchy, sacred monarchy :
for if there be anything sacred amongst men, it must
be the anointed SOVEREIGN of his people ; and every
diminution of his power, in war or in peace, is an
infringement upon the real liberties of the subject. The
sounds of Liberty, Patriotism, and Britons, have already
done much ; it is to be hoped that the true sons of
freedom will prevent their ever doing more. I have
known many of these pretended champions for liberty-
in my time, yet do I not remember one that was not
in his heart and in his family a tyrant."
My warmth, I found, had lengthened this harangue
beyond the rules of good breeding ; but the impatience
M
162 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
of my entertainer, who often strove to interrupt it, could
be restrained no longer. " What ! " cried he, " then I
have been all this while entertaining a Jesuit in parson's
clothes ! But, by all the coal-mines of Cornwall, out
he shall pack, if my name be Wilkinson." I now found
I had gone too far, and asked pardon for the warmth
with which I had spoken. " Pardon ! " returned he in
a fury : " I think such principles demand ten thousand
pardons. What ! give up liberty, property, and, as the
Gazetteer says, lie down to be saddled with wooden,
shoes ! Sir, I insist upon your marching out of this house
immediately, to prevent worse consequences : Sir, I
insist upon it." I was going to repeat my remon-
strances, but just then we heard a footman's rap at the
door, and the two ladies cried out, " As sure as death,
there is our master and mistress come home ! " It
seems my entertainer was all this while only the butler,
who, in his master's absence, had a mind to cut a figure,
and be for a while the gentleman himself; and, to say
the truth, he talked politics as well as most country
gentlemen do. But nothing 'could now exceed my
confusion upon seeing the gentleman and his lady enter ;
nor was their surprise, at finding such company and
good cheer, less than ours. " Gentlemen," cried the
real master of the house to me and my companion,
" my wife and I are your most humble servants ; but I
protest this is so unexpected a favour, that we almost
sink under the obligation." However unexpected our
company might be to them, theirs, I am sure, was still
more so to us, and I was struck^ dumb with the
apprehensions of my own absurdity, when whom should
I next see enter the room but my dear Miss Arabella
Wilmot, who was formerly designed to be married to
DESCRIPTION OF A DISCONTENTED PERSON
163
my son George, but whose match was broken off, as
already related. As soon as she saw me, she flew to
my arms with the utmost joy. " My dear Sir," cried
she, " to what happy accident is it that we owe so
unexpected a visit ? I am sure my uncle and aunt will
be in raptures when they find they have the good Dr.
Primrose for their guest." Upon hearing my name, the
old gentleman and lady very politely stepped up, and
welcomed me with most cordial hospitality. Nor could
164 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
they forbear smiling, upon being informed of the nature
of my present visit : but the unfortunate butler, whom
they at first seemed disposed to turn away, was at my
intercession forgiven.
Mr. Arnold and his lady, to whom the house belonged,
now insisted upon having the pleasure of my stay for
some days ; and as their niece, my charming pupil,
whose mind in some measure had been formed under
my own instructions, joined in their entreaties, I
complied. That night I was shown to a magnificent
chamber ; and the next morning early Miss Wilmot
desired to walk with me in the garden, which was
decorated in the modern manner. After some time
spent in pointing out the beauties of the place, she
inquired, with seeming unconcern, when last I had heard
from my son George. " Alas ! Madam," cried I, " he
has now been nearly three years absent, without ever writ-
ing to his friends or me. Where he is I know not ; perhaps
I shall never see him or happiness more. • No, my dear
Madam, we shall never more see such pleasing hours as
were once spent by our fireside at Wakefield. My
little family are now dispersing very fast, and poverty
has brought not only want, but infamy upon us." The
good-natured girl let f all a tear.& Mthi s account ; but as
^ I saw her possessed of too much sensibility, I forbore a
more minute detail of our sufferings. It was, however,
some consolation to me to find that time had made no
alteration in her affections,, and that she had rejected
several matches that had been made her since our
leaving her part of the country. She led me round all
the extensive improvements of the place, pointing to
the several walks and arbours, and at the same time
catching from every object a hint for some new question
xix DESCRIPTION OF A DISCONTENTED PERSON 165
relative to my son. In this manner we spent the fore-
noon, till the bell summoned us in to dinner, where we
found the manager of the strolling company that I
mentioned before, who was come to dispose of tickets
for the Fair Penitent, which was to be acted that
evening : the part of Horatio by a young gentleman
who had never appeared on any stage. He seemed to
be very warm in the praises of the new performer, and
averred that he never saw any who bid so fair for
excellence. Acting, he observed, was not learned in a
day ; " but this gentleman," continued he, " seems born
to tread the stage. His voice, his figure, and attitudes
are all admirable. We caught him up accidentally in
our journey down." This account in some measure
excited our curiosity, and, at the entreaty of the ladies,
I was prevailed upon to accompany them to the play-
house, which was no other than a barn. As the
company with which I went was incontestably the chief
of the place, we were received with the greatest respect,
and placed in the front seat of the theatre, where we
sat for some time with no small impatience to see
Horatio make his appearance. The new performer
advanced at last ; and let parents think of my
sensations by their own, when I found it was my
unfortunate son ! He was going to begin ; when,
turning his eyes upon the audience, he perceived Miss
Wilmot and me, and stood at once speechless and
immovable.
The actors behind the scene, who ascribed this
pause to his natural timidity, attempted to encourage
him ; but instead of going on, he burst into a flood of
tears, and retired off the stage. I don't know what
were my feelings on this occasion, for they succeeded
1 66
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
CHAP. XlX
with too much rapidity for description ; but I was
soon awaked from this disagreeable reverie by Miss
Wilmot, who, pale and with a trembling voice, desired
me to conduct her back to her uncle's. When got
home, Mr. Arnold, who was as yet a stranger to our
extraordinary behaviour, being informed that the new
performer was my son, sent his coach and an invitation
for him ; and as he persisted in his refusal to appear
again upon the stage, the players put another in his
place, and we soon had him with us. Mr. Arnold gave
him the kindest reception, and I received him with my
usual transport ; for I could never counterfeit false
resentment. Miss Wilmot's reception was mixed with
seeming neglect, and yet I could perceive she acted a
studied part. The tumult in her mind seemed not
yet abated : she said twenty giddy things that looked
like joy, and then laughed loud at her own want of
meaning. At intervals she would take a sly peep at
the glass, as if happy in the consciousness of unresisted
beauty ; and often would ask questions, without giving
any manner of attention to the answers.
Chapter X&P
<JP&J6cjtbry of a fifcCosofi&c Uacf<x6oncC,
fiarsaCngJVcDeCty, 6af Cosing Content
/^P/we had supped, Mrs. Arnold politely
offered to send a couple of her foot-
men for my son's baggage, which he at first seemed to
decline ; but upon her pressing the request, he was
obliged to inform her, that a stick and wallet were all
the movable things upon this earth that he could
boast of. " Why, ay, my son," cried I, " you left me
but poor, and poor I find you are come back : and yet
I make no doubt you have seen a great deal of the
world." — " Yes, Sir," replied my son, " but travelling
after Fortune is not the way to secure her ; and,
indeed, of late I have desisted from the pursuit." — " I
fancy, Sir," cried Mrs. Arnold, " that the account of
your adventures would be amusing ; the first part of
them I have often heard from my niece ; but could the
company prevail for the rest, it would be an additional
obligation." — "Madam," replied my son, "I promise
you the pleasure you have in hearing will not be half
so great as my vanity in repeating them ; yet in the
whole narrative I can scarcely promise you one adven-
i6d
THE VICAR OF WAiCEFtELt)
ture, as my account is rather of what I saw than what
I did. The first misfortune of my life, which, you all
know, was great ; but though it distressed, it could not
sink me. No person ever had a better kna ck at h oping
** 8f>.
1%cif OaroflecC Cy mk dToad }
than I. The less kind I found Fortune at one time,
the more I expected from her another ; and being now
at the bottom of her wheel, every new revolution might
lift, but could not depress me. I proceeded, therefore,
towards London in a fine morning, no way uneasy
XX HISTORY OF A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND 169
about to-morrow, but cheerful as the birds that carolled
by the .road ; and comforted myself with reflecting,'
that London was the mart where abilities of every kind
were sure of meeting distinction and reward.
" Upon my arrival in town, Sir, my first care was to
deliver your letter of recommendation to our cousin,
who was himself in little better circumstances than I.
My first scheme, you know, Sir, was to be usher_at^an^.
academy ; and I asked his advice on the affair. Our
cousin received the proposal with a true sardonic grin.
1 Ay/ cried he, * this is indeed a very pretty career that
has been chalked out for you. I have been an usher
at a boarding-school myself; and may I die by an
anodyne necklace, but I had rather be an under-turnkey
in Newgate. I was up early and late : I was browbeat
by the master, hated for my ugly face by the mistress,
worried by the boys within, and never permitted to stir
out to meet civility abroad. But are you sure you are
fit for a school ? Let me examine you a little. Have
you been bred apprentice to the business ? ' — ' No/ —
' Then you won't do for a school. Can you dress the
boys' hair ? ' — ' No/ — ' Then you won't do for a school.
Have you had the smallpox ? ' — * No/ — ' Then you
won't do for a school. Can you lie three in a bed ? '—
' No/ — ' Then you will never do for a school. Have
you got a good stomach ? ' — * Yes/ — ' Then you will by
no means do for a school. No, Sir : if you are for a
genteel, easy profession, bind yourself seven years an
apprentice to turn a cutler's wheel ; but avoid a school
by any means. Yet come/ continued he, 'I see you
are a lad of spirit and some learning ; what do you
think of commencing author, like me ? You have read
in books, no doubt, of men of genius starving at the
170 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
trade. At present I'll show you forty very dull fellows
about town that live by it in opulence ; all honest jog-
trot men, who go on smoothly and dully, and write
history and politics, and are praised — men, Sir, who,
had they been bred cobblers, would all their lives have
only mended shoes, but never made them.'
" Finding that there was no great degree of gentility
affixed to the character of an usher, I resolved to
accept his proposal ; and having the highest respect
for literature, hailed the antiqua mater of Grub Street
with reverence. I thought it my glory to pursue a
track which Dryden and Otway trod before me. I
considered the goddess of this region as the parent of
excellence ; and however an intercourse with the
world might give us good sense, the poverty she
granted I supposed to be the nurse of genius ! Big
with these reflections, I sat down, and finding that the
best things remained to be said on the wrong side, I
resolved to write a book that should be wholly new.
/ L therefore dressed up three paradoxes with some
ingenuity. They were false, indeed, but they were
new. The jewels of truth have been so often imported
by others, that nothing was left for me to import but
some splendid things that at a distance looked every
bit as well. Witness, you powers, what fancied im-
portance sat perched upon my quill while I was
writing ! The whole learned world, I made no doubt,
would rise to oppose my systems : but then I was
prepared to oppose the whole learned world. Like the
porcupine, I sat self-collected, with a quill pointed"
/ against every opposer."
"Well said, my boy," cried I : "and what subject
did you treat upon ? I hope you did not pass over
XX
HISTORY Of A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND
171
the importance of monogamy. But I interrupt : go on.
You published your paradoxes ; well, and what did the
learned world say to your paradoxes ? "
-"Sir," replied my son, "the learned world said
JjTtiM oat' <z 6an</^ $f firo/ios<T&
nothing to my paradoxes ; nothing at all, Sir. Every
man of them was employed in praising his friends and
himself, or condemning his enemies ; and unfortunately,
as I had neither, I suffered the cruellest mortification —
neglect.
172 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
"As I was meditating one day in a coffee- house,
on the fate of my paradoxes, a little man Happening to
enter the room, placed himself in the box before me,
and after some preliminary discourse, finding me to be
a scholar, drew out a bundle of proposals, begging me
to subscribe to a new edition he was going to give to
the world of Propertius, with Notes. This demand
necessarily produced a reply that I had no money ;
and that concession led him to inquire into the nature
of my expectations. Finding that my expectations
were just as great as my purse, — i I see,' cried he, ' you
are unacquainted with the town : I'll teach you a part
of it. Look at these proposals, — upon these very
proposals I have subsisted very comfortably for twelve
years. The moment a nobleman returns from his
travels, a Creoli an arrives from Jamaica, or a dowager
from he/ country seat, I strike for a subscription. I
first besiege their hearts with flattery, and then pour in
my proposals at the breach. If they subscribe readily
the first time, I renew my request to beg a dedication
fee. If they let me have that, I smite them once more
for engraving their coat -of- arms at the top. Thus,'
continued he, ' I live by vanity, and laugh at it. But,
between ourselves, I am now too well known : I should
be glad to borrow your face a bit. A nobleman of dis-
tinction has just returned from Italy ; my face is familiar
to his porter ; but if you bring this copy of verses, my
life for it you succeed, and we divide the spoil.' "
" Bless us, George," cried I, " and is this the em-
ployment of poets now? Do men of exalted talents
, thus stoop to beggary? Can they so far disgrace
/ their calling, as to make a vile traffic of praise for
bread ? "
xx HISTORY OF A PHILOSOPHIC VACxABOND 173
" Oh no, Sir," returned he, " a true poet can never
•- be so base ; for wherever there is genius, there is pride.
The creatures I now describe are only beggars in
rhyme. The real poet, as he braves every hardship
for fame, so he is equally a coward to contempt ; and
none but those who are unworthy protectibn condescend
to solicit it.
u Having a mind too proud to stoop to such
indignities, and yet a fortune too humble to hazard a
second attempt for fame, I was now obliged to take a
middle course, and write for bread. But I was un-_
qualified for a profession where mere industry alone was
to ensure success. I could not suppress my lurking
passion for applause ; but usually consumed that time
in efforts after excellence which takes up but little
room, when it should have been more advantageously
employed in the diffusive productions of fruitful
mediocrity. My little piece would therefore come forth
in the mist of periodical publication, unnoticed and un-
known. The public were more importantly employed
than to observe the easy simplicity of my style, or the
harmony of my periods. Sheet after sheet was thrown
off to oblivion. My essays were buried among the
essays upon liberty, Eastern tales, and cures for
the bite of a mad dog ; while Philautos, Philalethes, r
Philelutheros, and Philanthropos, all wrote better, -
because they wrote faster than I.
" Now, therefore, I began to associate with none but.
disappointed authors like myself, who praised, deplored,
and despised each other. The satisfaction we found
in every celebrated writer's attempts was inversely as
their merits. I found that no genius in another could
please me. My unfortunate paradoxes had entirely
174
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
dried up that source of comfort. I could neither read
nor write with satisfaction ; for excellence in another
was my aversion, and writing was my trade.
" In the midst of these gloomy reflections, as I was
one day sitting on a bench in St. James's Park, a
■<<\u
young gentleman of distinction, who had been my
intimate acquaintance at the university, approached me.
We saluted each other with some hesitation ; he almost
ashamed of being known to one who made so shabby
an appearance, and I afraid of a repulse. But my
suspicions soon vanished ; for Ned Thornhill was at
the bottom a very good-natured fellow."
xx HISTORY OF A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND 175
"What did you say, George?" interrupted I.
" Thornhill, was not that his name ? It can certainly
be no other than my landlord." — " Bless me," cried Mrs.
Arnold, " is Mr. Thornhill so near a neighbour of yours ?
He has long been a friend in our family, and we expect
a visit from him shortly."
" My friend's first care," continued my son, " was to
alter my appearance by a very fine suit of his own clothes,
and then I was admitted to his table, upon the footing
^/of half friend, half underling. My business was to
attend him at auctions, to put him in spirits when he
sat for his picture, to take the left hand in his chariot
when not filled by another, and to assist at tattering a
kip, as the phrase was, when he had a mind for a frolic.
Besides this, I had twenty other little employments in
the family. I was to do many small things without
bidding : to carry the corkscrew ; to stand godfather to
all the butler's children ; to sing when I was bid ; to
* be never out of humour ; always to be humble, and, if
I could, to be very happy.
" In this honourable post, however, I was not with-
out a rival. A captain of marines, who was formed
for the. place by nature, opposed me in my patron's
affections. His mother had been laundress to a man
of quality, and thus he early acquired a taste for pimping -
and pedigree. As this gentleman made it the study of
his life to be acquainted with lords, though he was
dismissed from several for his stupidity, yet he found
many of them who were as dull as himself, that per-
mitted his assiduities. As flattery was his trade, he
practised it with the easiest address imaginable; but it
came awkward and stiff from me ; and as every day
my patron's desire of flattery increased, so, every hour,
176 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
being better acquainted with his defects, I became more
unwilling to give it. Thus, I was once more fairly
going to give up the field to the captain, when my
friend found occasion for my assistance. This wast
nothing less than to fight a duel for him with a gentle-
man, whose sister it was pretended he had used ill. I
readily complied with his request ; and though I see
you are displeased at my conduct, yet, as it was a debt
indispensably due to friendship, I could not refuse. I
undertook the affair, disarmed my antagonist, and soon
after had the pleasure of finding that the lady was
only a woman of the town, and the fellow her bully
and a sharper. This piece of service was repaid with
the warmest professions of gratitude ; but, as my friend
was to leave town in a few days, he knew no other
method of serving me but by recommending me to his
uncle, Sir William Thornhill, and another nobleman of
great distinction, who enjoyed a post under the govern-
ment. When he was gone, my first care was to carry
his recommendatory letter to his uncle, a man whose
character for every virtue was universal, yet just. I
was received by his servants with the most hospitable
s smiles ; for the looks of the domestic ever transmit the
master's benevolence. Being shown into a grand
apartment, where Sir William soon came to me, I
delivered my message and letter, which he read, and,
after pausing some minutes, — ' Pray, Sir,' cried he,
' inform me what you have done for my kinsman to
deserve this warm recommendation ? But I suppose,
Sir, I guess your merits : you have fought for him ; and
so you would expect a reward from me for being the
instrument of his vices. I wish — sincerely wish — that
my present refusal may be some punishment for your
xx HISTORY OF A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND 177
guilt ; but still more, that it may be some inducement
to your repentance/ The severity of this rebuke I
bore patiently, because I knew it was just. My whole
expectations now, therefore, lay in my letter to the
great man. As the doors of the nobility are almost
ever beset with beggars, all ready to thrust in some sly^*-^
petition, I found it no easy matter to gain . admittance/
However, after bribing the servants with half my
worldly fortune, I was at last shown into a spacious
apartment, my letter being previously sent up for his
lordship's inspection. During this anxious interval, I
had full time to look round me. Everything was grand
and of happy contrivance : the paintings, the furniture,
the gildings, petrifie d me with awe,_ and raised my idea
of the owner. Ah, thought I to myself, how very great
must the possessor of all these things be, who carries
in his head the business of the state, and whose house
displays half the wealth of a kingdom ! Sure his genius
must be unfathomable ! During these awful reflections
I heard a step come heavily forward. Ah, this is the
great man himself! No; it was only a chambermaid.
Another foot was heard soon after. This must be He !
No ; it was only the great man's valet -de-chamb re.
At last his lordship actually made his appearance.
' Are you/ cried he, ' the bearer of this here letter ? ' I
answered with a bow. ' I learn by this/ continued he,
' as how that ' But just at that instant a servant
delivered him a card, and, without taking farther notice,
he went out of the room, and left me to digest my own
happiness at leisure. I saw no more of him, till told
by a footman that his lordship was going to his coach
at the door. • Down I immediately followed, and joined
my voice to that of three or four more, who came, like
N
i;8
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
'me, to petition for favours. His lordship, however,
went too fast for us, and was gaining his chariot door
of ik<S fere fyfer.
^5*
with large strides, when I hallooed out to know if I
was to haVe any reply. He. was by this time got in,
xx HISTORY OF A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND 179
and muttered an answer, half of which only I heard,
the other half was lost in the rattling of his chariot
wheels. I stood for some time with my neck stretched
out, in the posture of one that was listening to catch
the glorious sounds, till, looking round me, I found
myself alone at his lordship's gate.
" My patience," continued my son, " was now quite
exhausted : stung with the thousand indignities I had
met with, I was willing to cast myself away, and only
wanted the gulf to receive me. I regarded myself as
one of those vile things that Nature designed should be
thrown by into her lumber-room, there to perish in
obscurity. I had still, however, half-a'-guinea left, and
of that I thought Nature herself should not deprive
me ; but in order to be sure of this, I was resolved to
go instantly and spend it while I had it, and then
tpisi: to occurrences for the rest. As I was going
along with this resolution, it happened that Mr. Crispe's
office seemed invitingly open to give me a welcome
reception. In this office, Mr. Crispe kindly offers all
His Majesty's subjects a generous promise of ^30 a
year, for which promise all they give in return is their
liberty for life, and permission to let him transport
them to America as slaves. I was happy at finding a
place where I could lose my fears in desperation, and
entered this cell (for it had the appearance of one)
with the devotion of a ^ monastic. Here I found a
number of poor creatures, all in circumstances like
myself, expecting the arrival of Mr. Crispe, presenting
a true Qgitome^ of English impatience. Each untract-
able soul, at variance with Fortune, wreaked her injuries
on their own hearts : but Mr. Crispe at last came down,
and all our murmurs were hushed. He 1 deigned to
i8o
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
regard me with an air of peculiar approbation, and
indeed he was the first man who, for a month past, had
talked to me with smiles. After a few questions, he
found I was fit for everything in the world. He
paused a while upon the properest means of providing
for me : and slapping his
forehead as if he had found
it, assured me that there was -
at that time an embassy
talked of from the synod of
Pennsylvania to the Chick-
asaw Indians, and that he
would use his interest to get
me made secretary. I knew
in my own heart that the
fellow lied, and yet his pro-
mise gave me pleasure, there
(Was something so magnifi-
cent in the sound. I fairly
f therefore divided my half-
guinea, one - half of which
went to be added to his thirty
thousand pounds, and with
the other half I resolved to
go to the next tavern, to
be there more happy than
he.
" As I was going out with that resolution, I was
met at the door by the captain of a ship with whom I
had formerly some little acquaintance, and he agreed
to be my companion over a bowl of punch. As I
never chose to make a secret of my circumstances, he
assured me f that I was upon the very point of ruin, in
cAg* Qrfjfa
xx HISTORY OF A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND 181
listening to the office-keeper's promises ; for that he
only designed to sell me to the plantations. ' But/
continued he, f I fancy you might, by a much shorter
voyage, be very easily put into a genteel way of bread.
Take my advice. My ship sails to - morrow for
Amsterdam : what if you go in her as a passenger ?
The moment you land, all you have to do is to teach
the Dutchmen English, and I'll warrant you'll get
pupils and money enough. I suppose you understand
English/ added- he, f by this time, or the deuce is in it.'
I confidently assured him of that ; but expressed a
182 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
doubt whether the Dutch would be willing to learn
English. He affirmed, with an oath, that they were
fond of it to distraction ; and upon that affirmation I
agreed with his proposal, and embarked the next day
to teach the Dutch English in Holland. The wind
was fair, our voyage short ; and after having paid my
/-"-"passage with half my movables, I found myself, fallen
as from the skies, a stranger in one of the principal
streets of Amsterdam. In this situation I was un-
willing to let any time pass unemployed in teaching.
I addressed myself, therefore, to two or three of those
I met whose appearance seemed most promising ; but
it was impossible to make ourselves mutually under-
stood. It was not till this very moment I recollected,
that in order to teach the Dutchmen English, it was
necessary that they should first teach me Dutch.
How I came to overlook so obvious an objection is to
me amazing : but certain it is I overlooked it.
"This scheme thus blown up, I had some thoughts
of fairly shipping back to England again, but falling '
into company with an Irish student, who was returning
from Louvain, our conversation turning upon topics of
literature (for, by the way, it may be observed that I
/ always forgot the meanness of my circumstances when
I could converse upon such subjects), from him I learned
that there were not two men in his whole university
who understood Greek. This amazed me. I instantly
resolved to travel to Louvain, and there live by teaching
Greek : and in this design I was heartened by my
brother student, who threw out some hints that a
fortune might be got by it.
" I set boldly forward the next morning. Every
day lessened the burden of my movables, like ^Esop
XX
HISTORY OF A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND
183
and his basket of bread ; for I paid them for my
lodgings to the Dutch, as I travelled on. When I
came to Louvain, I was resolved not to go sneaking to
the lower professors, but openly tendered my talents to
the Principal himself. I went, had admittance, and
Jfy'f <xmaxcc(yy)Z.
offered him my service as a master of the Greek
language, which I had been told was a desideratum in
his university. The Principal seemed at first to doubt
of my abilities ; but of these I offered to convince him,
by turning a part of any Greek author he should fix
upon into Latin. Finding me perfectly earnest in my
proposal, he addressed me thus : ■ You see me, young
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
y
man ; I never learned Greek, and I don't find that I
have ever missed it. I have had a Doctor's cap and
gown without Greek ; I have ten thousand florins a
year without Greek ; I eat heartily without Greek ; and,
in short/ continued he, ( as I don't know Greek, I do
not believe there is any good in it'
" I was now too far from home to think of returning ;
so I resolved to go
forward. I had some
knowledge of music,
with a tolerable voice,
and now turned what
was my amusement"
into a present means '
of subsistence. I
passed among the
harmless peasants of
Flanders, and among
such of the French as
were poor enough to
be very merry ; for
I ever found them
sprightly in proportion to their wants. Whenever I
approached a peasant's house towards nightfall, I played
one of my most merry tunes, and that procured me not
only a lodging, but subsistence for the next day. I
once or twice attempted to play for people of fashion,
but they always thought my performance odious, and
never rewarded me even with a trifle. This was to me the
more extraordinary, as, whenever I used, in better days,
to play for company, when playing was my amusement,
my music never failed to throw them into raptures, and
the ladies especially ; but as it was now my only means,
c7p(ayedTon.z °f*™f >>\osi >"£r£j
xx HISTORY OF A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND 185
it was received with contempt — a proof how ready the
world is to underrate those talents by which a man is
supported.
" In this manner I proceeded to Paris, with no
design but just to look about me, and then to go
forward. The people of Paris are much fonder of
strangers that have money, than those that have wit.
As I could not boast much of either, I was no great
favourite. After walking about the town four -or five
days, and seeing the outsides of the best houses, I was
preparing to leave this retreat of y aial hospitality , when
passing through one of the principal streets, whom
should I meet but our cousin, to whom you first
recommended me. This meeting was very agreeable
to me, and I believe not displeasing to him. He in-
quired into the nature of my journey to Paris, and in-
formed me of his own business there, which was to collect
pictures, medals, int aglios, and antiques of all kinds, for
a gentleman in London who had just stepped into taste -
and a large fortune. I was the more surprised at
seeing our cousin pitched upon for this office, as he
himself had often assured me he knew nothing of the
matter. Upon asking how he had been taught the art
of a cogng^Qento^so very suddenly, he assured me that
nothing was more easy. The whole secret consisted in
a strict adherence to two rules : the one, always to
observe that the picture might have been better if the
painter had taken more pains ; and the other, to praise
the works of .Pje tro Peru gino. ' But,' says he, ' as I
once taught you how to be an author in London, I'll
now undertake to instruct you in the art of picture-
buying at Paris/
" With this proposal I very readily closed, as it was
186 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
living, and now all my ambition was to live. I went
therefore to his lodgings, improved my dress by his
assistance ; and, after some time, accompanied him to
^auctions of pictures, where the English gentry were
expected to be purchasers. I was not a little surprised
at his intimacy with people of the best fashion, who
referred themselves to his judgment upon every picture
or medal, as an unerring standard of taste. He
made very good use of my assistance upon these occa-
sions ; for, when asked his opinion, he would gravely
take me aside and ask mine, shrug, look wise, return,
and assure the company that he could give no opinion
upon an affair of so much importance. Yet there was
sometimes an occasion for a more supported assurance.
I remember to have seen him, after giving his opinion
that the colouring of a picture was not mellow enough,
very deliberately take a brush with brown varnish, that
was accidentally lying by, and rub it over the piece with
great composure before all the company, and then ask
if he had not improved the tints.
" When he had finished his commission in Paris, he
left me strongly recommended to several men of
distinction, as a person very proper for a travelling
tutor ; and after some time, I was employed in that
capacity by a gentleman who brought his ward to Paris,
in order to set him forward on his tour through Europe.
I was to be the young gentleman's governor ; but with
ajDroviso, that he should always be permitted to govern
himself. My pupil, in fact, understood the art of guiding
in money concerns much better than I. He was heir to
a fortune of about two hundred thousand pounds, left
him by an uncle in the West Indies ; and his guardians,
to qualify him for the management of it, had bound
xx HISTORY OF A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND 187
him apprentice to an attorney. Thus avarice was his
prevailing passion : all his questions on the road were,
how money might be saved ; which was the least
expensive course of travel ; whether anything could be
bought that would turn to account when disposed of
again in London ? Such curiosities on the way as
could be seen for nothing, he was ready enough to look
at ; but if the sight of them was to be paid for, he
usually asserted that he had been told they were not
worth seeing. He never paid a bill that he would not
observe how amazingly expensive travelling was ! and
all this though- he was not yet twenty-one. When
arrived at Leghorn, as we took a walk to look at the
port and shipping, he inquired the expense of the
passage by sea home to England. This he was in-
formed was but a trifle compared to his returning by
land ; he was therefore unable to withstand the
temptation ; so paying me the small part of my salary '
that was due, he took leave, and embarked with only
one attendant for London.
" I now therefore was left once more upon the
world at large ; but then, it was a thing I was used to.
However, my skill in music could avail me nothing in
a country where every peasant was a better musician
than I : but by this time I had acquired another talent,
which answered my purpose as well, and this was a
skill in disputation. In all the foreign universities and
convents there are, upon certain days, philosophical^
theses maintained against every a^dvejaiitious disputant ;
for which, if the champion opposes with any dexterity,
he can claim a gratuity in money, a dinner, and a bed
for one night. In this manner, therefore, I fought my
way towards England ; walked along from city to city ;
1 88 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap, xx
examined mankind more nearly ; and, if I may so
express it, saw both sides of the picture. My remarks,
however, are but few : I found that monarchy was the
best government for the poor to live in, and common-
wealths- for the rich. I found that riches in general
were in every country another name for freedom ; and
— ^Jthat no man is so fond of liberty himself, as not to be
-* — desirous of subjecting the will of some individuals in
society to his own.
" Upon my arrival in England, I resolved to pay
my respects first to you, and then to enlist as a
volunteer in the first expedition that was going forward ;
but on my journey down, my resolutions were changed
by meeting an old acquaintance, who I found belonged
to a company of comedians that were going to make
a summer campaign in the country. The company
seemed not much to disapprove of me for an associate.
They all, however, apprised me of the importance of
the task at which I aimed ; that the public was a
many-headed monster, and that only such as had very
good heads could please it : that acting was not to be
learned in a day ; and that without some traditional
shrugs, which had been on the stage, and only on the
stage, these hundred years, I could never pretend to
please. The next difficulty was in fitting me with
parts, as almost every character was in keeping. I was
driven for some time from one character to another, till
at last Horatio was fixed upon, which the presence of
the present company has happily hindered me from
acting."
c^ve <ff\ori~ contcrviLQ nee g/° <S^cends/icfi crmonocft f/fe
son's account was too long to be de-
livered at once ; the first part of it was
begun that night, and he was concluding
the rest after dinner the next day, when the appearance
of Mr. Thornhill's equipage at the door seemed to make
a pause in the general satisfaction. The butler, who
was now become my friend in the family, informed me,
with a whisper, that the Squire had already made some
overtures to Miss Wilmot, and that her aunt and uncle
seemed highly to approve the match. Upon Mr.
Thornhill's entering, he seemed, at seeing my son and
me, to start back ; but I readily imputed that to sur-
prise, and not displeasure. However, upon our advanc-
ing to salute him, he returned our greeting with the
most apparent candour ; and after a short time his
190 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
presence served only to increase the general good
humour.
After tea he called me aside to inquire after my
daughter : but upon my informing him that my inquiry
was unsuccessful, he seemed greatly surprised ; adding
that he had been since frequently at my house in order
to comfort the rest of my family, whom he left perfectly
well. He then asked if I communicated her misfortune
to Miss Wilmot or my son ; and upon my replying
that I had not told them as yet, he greatly approved
xxi THE SHORT CONTINUANCE OF FRIENDSHIP 191
my prudence and precaution, desiring me by all means
to keep it a secret : " For at best," cried he, " it is but
divulging one's own infamy ; and perhaps Miss Livy
may not be so guilty as we all imagine." We were
here interrupted by a servant who came to ask the
Squire in, to stand up at country-dances : so that he
left me quite pleased with the interest he seemed to
take in my concerns. His addresses, however, to Miss
Wilmot were too obvious to be mistaken : and yet, she
seemed not perfectly pleased, but bore them rather in
compliance to the will of her aunt than from real
inclination. I had even the satisfaction to see her
lavish some kind looks upon my unfortunate son, which
the other could neither extort by his fortune nor
^assjduity. Mr. Thornhill's seeming composure, however,
not a little surprised me : we had now continued here
a week at the pressing instances of Mr. Arnold ; but
each day the more tenderness Miss Wilmot showed my
son, Mr. ThornhiU's friendship seemed proportionably
to increase for him.
He had formerly made us the most kind assurances
of using his interest to serve the family ; but now his
generosity was not confined to promises alone. The
morning I designed for my departure, Mr. Thornhill
came to me with looks of real pleasure, to inform me of
a piece of service he had done for his friend George.
This was nothing less than his having procured him an
ensign's commission in one of the regiments that was
going to the West Indies, for which he had promised
but one hundred pounds, his interest having been
sufficient to get an abatement of the other two. " As
for this trifling piece of service," continued the young
gentleman, " I desire no other reward but the pleasure
192 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
of having served my friend ; and as for the hundred
pounds to be paid, if you are unable to raise it your-
selves, I will advance it, and you shall repay me at
your leisure." This was a favour we wanted words to
express our sense of: I readily, therefore, gave my
bond for the money, and testified as much gratitude as
if I never- intended to pay.
George was to depart for town the next day, to
secure his commission, in pursuance of his generous
patron's directions, who judged it highly expedient to
use despatch, lest in the meantime another should step
in with more advantageous proposals. The next
morning, therefore, our young soldier was early prepared
for his departure, and seemed the only person among
us that was not affected by it. Neither the fatigues and
dangers he was going to encounter, nor the friends and
mistress — for Miss Wilmot actually loved him — he was
leaving behind, any way damped his spirits. After hie
had taken leave of the rest of the company, I gave him
all I had, my blessing. " And now, my boy," cried I,
" thou art going to fight for thy country : remember
how thy brave grandfather fought for his sacred king,
when loyalty among Britons was a virtue. Go, my
boy, and imitate him in all but. his misfortunes, if it
was a misfortune to die with Lord Falkland. Go, my
boy, and if you fall, though distant>|exposed, and un-
wept by those that love you, the most precious tears
are those with which Heaven bedews the unburied head
of a soldier." *
The next morning I took leave of the good family,
that had been kind enough to entertain me so long,
not without several expressions of gratitude to Mr.
Thornhill for his late bounty. I left them in the
xxi THE SHORT CONTINUANCE OF FRIENDSHIP 193
enjoyment of all that happiness which affluence and
good breeding procure, and returned towards home,
despairing of ever finding my daughter more, but
sending a sigh to Heaven to spare and to forgive her.
I was now come within about twenty miles of home,
having hired a horse to carry me, as I was yet but weak,
and comforted myself with the hopes of soon seeing all
I held dearest upon earth. But the night coming on,
I put up at a little public-house by the road-side, and
asked for the landlord's company over a pint of wine.
We sat beside his kitchen fire, which was the best room
in the house, and chatted on politics and the news of
the country. We happened, among other topics, to
talk of young Squire Thornhill, who, the host assured
me, was hated as much as his uncle Sir William, who
sometimes came down to the country, was loved. He
went on to observe, that he made it his whole study to
betray the daughters of such as received him to their
houses, and, after a fortnight or three weeks' possession,
turned them out unrewarded and abandoned to the
world. As we continued our discourse in this manner,
his wife, who had been out to get change, returned, and
perceiving that her husband was enjoying a pleasure in
which she was not a sharer, she asked him, in an angry
tone, what he did there? to which he only replied,
in an ironical way, by drinking her health. " Mr.
Symmonds," cried she, " you use me very ill, and I'll bear
it no longer. Here three parts of the business is left
for me to do, and the fourth left unfinished, while you
do nothing but soak with the guests all day long ;
whereas, if a spoonful of liquor were to cure' me of a
fever, I never touch a drop." I now found what she
would be at, and immediately poured her out a glass,
194
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
CHAP.
which she received with a courtesy ; and, drinking
towards my good health, " Sir," resumed she, " it is not
so much for the value of the liquor I am angry, but one
cannot help it when the house is going out of the
windows. If the customers or guests are to be dunned,
all the burden lies upon my back : he'd as lief eat that
glass as budge after them himself. There, now, above
stairs, we have a young woman who has come to take
up her lodging here, and I don't believe she has got
any money, by her over-civility. I am certain she is
very slow of payment, and I wish she were put in mind
of it." — " What signifies minding her ? " cried the host ;
" if she be slow, she is sure." — " I don't know that,"
replied the wife ; " but I know that I am sure she has
been here a fortnight, and we have not yet seen the
xxi THE SHORT CONTINUANCE OF FRIENDSHIP 195
cross of her^ m oney." — " I suppose, my dear," cried he,
" we shall have it all in a lump." — " In a lump I " cried
the other : " I hope we may get it any way ; and that
I am resolved we will this very night, or out she tramps,
bag and baggage." — " Consider, my dear," cried the
husband, " she is a gentlewoman, and deserves more
respect." — " As for the matter of that," returned the
hostess, " gentle or simple, out she shall pack with a
^■S ussarara. Gentry may be good things where they
take ; but, for my part, I never saw much good of them
at the sign of the Harrow." Thus saying, she ran up
a narrow flight of stairs that went from the kitchen to
a room overhead ; and I soon perceived, by the loud-
ness of her voice, and the bitterness of her reproaches,
that no money was to be had from her lodger. I could
hear her remonstrances very distinctly : " Out, I say ;
pack out this moment ! tramp, thou infamous strumpet,
or I'll give thee a mark thou won't be the better for
this three months. What ! you trumpery, to come and
take up an honest house without cross or coi n to bless*
yourself with ! Come along, I say ! " — " Oh, dear
Madam," cried the stranger, " pity me — pity a poor
abandoned creature, for one night, and death will soon
do the rest ! " I instantly knew the voice of my poor
ruined child Olivia. I flew to her rescue, while the
woman was dragging her along by her hair, and I
caught the dear forlorn wretch in my arms. " Welcome,
any way welcome, my dearest lost one — my treasure —
to your poor old father's bosom ! Though the vicious
forsake thee, there is yet one in the world that will
never forsake thee ; though thou hadst ten thousand
crimes to answer for, he will forget them all ! " — " Oh,
my own dear " — for minutes she could say no more —
196
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
" my own dearest good papa ! Could angels be kinder ?
How do I deserve so much ? The villain, I hate him
and myself, to be a reproach to so much goodness !
You can't forgive me, I know you cannot." — " Yes, my
child, from my heart I do forgive thee : only repent,
and we both shall yet be happy. We shall see many
pleasant days yet, my Olivia." — " Ah ! never, Sir, never.
The rest of my wretched life must be infamy abroad,
xxi THE SHORT CONTINUANCE OF FRIENDSHIP 197
and shame at home. But, alas ! papa, you look much
paler than you used to do. Could such a thing as I
am give you so much uneasiness ? Surely you have
too much wisdom to take the miseries of my guilt upon
yourself." — " Our wisdom, young woman," replied I.
" Ah, why so cold a name, papa ? " cried she. " This
is the first time you ever called me by so cold a name."
— " I ask pardon, my darling," returned I ; " but I was
going to observe, that wisdom makes but a slow defence
against trouble, though at last a sure one." The land-
lady now returned, to know if we did not choose a
more genteel apartment ; to which assenting, we were
shown a room where we could converse more freely.
After we had talked ourselves into some degree of
tranquillity, I could not avoid desiring some account of
the gradations that led her to her present wretched
situation. " That villain, Sir," said she, " from the first
day of our meeting, made me honourable, though
private proposals." ^
" Villain, indeed ! " cried I : " and yet it in some
measure surprises me, how a person of Mr. BurcheH's
good sense and seeming honour could be guilty of
such deliberate baseness, and thus step into a family
to undo it."
" My dear papa," returned my daughter, " you labour
under a strange mistake. Mr. Burchell never attempted
to deceive me : instead of that, he took every oppor-
tunity of privately admonishing me against the artifices
of Mr. Thornhill, who, I now find, was even worse than
he represented him."— " Mr. Thornhill ! " interrupted I ;
"can it be?" — "Yes, Sir," returned she, "it was Mr.
Thornhill who seduced me ; who, employed the two
ladies, as he called them, . but who in fact were
198 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
abandoned women of the town, without breeding or
pity, to decoy us up to London. /T heir artifices, you
may remember, would have certainly succeeded, but for
Mr. Burchell's letter, who directed those reproaches at
them which we all applied to ourselves. How he came
to have so much influence as to defeat their intentions
still remains a secret to me ; but I am convinced he
was ever our warmest, sincerest friend/'
" You amaze me, my dear," cried I ; " but now I
find my first suspicions of Mr. Thornhill's baseness were
too well grounded : but he can triumph in security ;
for he is rich, and we are poor. But tell me, my child,
sure it was no small temptation that could thus
obliterate all the impressions of such an education arid
so virtuous a disposition as thine ? "
" Indeed, Sir," replied she, " he owes all his triumph
to the desire I had of making him, and not myself,
happy. I knew that the ceremony of our marriage^
which was privately performed by a popish priest, was
no way binding, and that I had nothing to trust to but
his honour." — " What ! " 'interrupted I, " and were you
indeed married by a priest in orders ? " — " Indeed, Sir,
we were," replied she, " though we were both sworn to
conceal his name." — " Why, then, my child, come to my
arms again ; and now you are a thousand times more
welcome than before ; for you are now his wife to all
intents and purposes ; nor can all the laws of man,
though written upon tables of adamant, lessen the force
of that sacred connection."
" Alas, papa ! " replied she, " you are but little
acquainted with his villainies : he has been married
already by the same priest to six or eight wives more,
whom, like me, he has' deceived and abandoned."
xxi THE SHORT CONTINUANCE OF FRIENDSHIP 199
" Has he so ? " cried I ; " then we must hang the
priest, and you shall inform against him to-morrow." —
" But, Sir," returned she, " will that be right, when I am
sworn to secrecy ? " — " My dear," I replied, " if you
have made such a promise, I cannot, nor will I tempt
you to break it. Even though it may benefit the public,
you must not inform against him. In all human
institutions a smaller evil is allowed to procure a
greater good ; as, in politics, a province may be given
away to secure a kingdom ; in medicine, a limb may
be lopped off to preserve the body ; but in religion, the
law is written, and inflexible, never to do evil. And
this law, my child, is right ; for otherwise, if we commit
a- smaller evil to procure a greater good, certain guilt
would be thus incurred, in expectation of contingent
advantage. And though the advantage should certainly
follow, yet the interval between commission and
advantage, which is allowed to be guilty, may be that
in which we are called away to answer for the things
we have done, and the volume of human actions is
closed for ever. But I interrupt you, my dear ; go
on."
" The very next morning," continued she, " I found
what little expectation I was to have from his sincerity.
That very morning he introduced me to two unhappy
women more, whom, like me, he had deceived, but who
lived in contented prostitution. I loved him too
tenderly to bear such rivals in his affections, and strove
to forget my infamy in a tumult of pleasures. With
this view I danced, dressed, and talked ; but still was
unhappy. The gentlemen who visited there told me
every moment of the power of my charms, and this
only contributed to increase my melancholy, as I had
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
CHAP.
thrown all their power quite away. Thus each day I
grew more pensive, and he more insolent, till at last
the monster had the assurance to offer me to a young
baronet of his acquaintance. Need I describe, Sir, how
his ingratitude stung me ? My answer to this proposal
was almost madness. I desired to part. As I was
going, he offered me a purse ; but I flung it at him
with indignation, and burst from him in a rage, that
for a while kept me insensible of the miseries of my
situation. But I soon looked round me, and saw
myself a vile, abject, guilty thing, without one friend in
the world to apply to. Just in that interval, a stage
coach happening to pass by, I took a place, it being
my only aim to be driven at a distance from a wretch
I despised and detested. I was set down here, where,
xxi THE SHORT CONTINUANCE OF FRIENDSHIP 201
since my arrival, my own anxiety and this woman's
unkindness have been my only companions. The
hours of pleasure that I have passed with my mamma
and* sister now grow painful to me. Their sorrows are
much ; but mine are greater than theirs, for mine are
mixed with guilt and infamy."
" Have patience, my child," cried I, " and I hope
things will yet be better. Take some repose to-night,
and to-morrow I'll carry you home to your mother and
the rest of the family, from whom you will receive a
kind reception. Poor woman ! this has gone to her
heart ; but she loves you still, Olivia, and will forget it."
OjfjbnceJ arc ea<s<(y ftardonecC, co/fe're
tfx^re (S Cove at 6otfonv.
/he next morning I took my daughter behind
me, and set out on my return home. As we
travelled along, I strove, by every persuasion,
to calm her sorrows and fears, and to arm her with
resolution to bear the presence of her offended mother.
I took every opportunity, from the prospect of a fine
country, through which we passed, to observe how
much kinder Heaven was to us than we to each other ;
and that the misfortunes of Nature's making were very
few. I assured her, that she should never perceive any
change in my affections, and that, during my life,
which yet might be long, she might depend upon a
guardian and an instructor. I armed her against the
censure of the world, showed her that books were sweet
unreproaching companions to the miserable, and that, if
they could not bring us to enjoy life, they would at .
least teach us to endure it.
The hired horse that we rode was to be put up that
chap, xxii LOVE EASILY PARDONS OFFENCES
203
night at an inn by the way, within about five miles
from my house ; and as I was willing to prepare my
family for my daughter's reception, I determined to
leave her that night at the inn, and to return for
her, accompanied by my daughter Sophia, early the
next morning. It was night before we reached our
appointed stage ; however, after seeing her provided
with a decent apartment, and having ordered the
hostess to prepare proper refreshments, I kissed
her, and proceeded towards home. And now my
heart caught new sensations of pleasure, the nearer
I approached that peaceful mansion. As a bird-
that had been frighted from its nest, my affections^
204 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
outwent my haste, and hovered round my little fireside
with all the rapture of expectation. I called up the
many fond things I had to say, and anticipated the
welcome I was to receive. I already felt my wife's
tender embrace, and smiled at the joy of my little ones.
As I walked but slowly, the night waned apace, The
labourers of the day were all retired to rest ; the lights
were out in every* cottage ; no sounds were heard but
of the shr illing cock, and the deep-mouthed watch-dog,
at hollow distanc e. I approached my little abode of
pleasure, and, before I was within a furlong of the
place, our honest mastiff came running to welcome me.
It was now near midnight that I came to knock at
my door : all was still and silent : my heart dilated
with unutterable happiness, when, to my amazement, I
saw the house bursting out in a blaze of fire, and every
aperture red with conflagration. I gave a loud convul-
sive outcry, and fell upon the pavement, insensible.
This alarmed my son, who had, till this, been asleep ;
and he, perceiving the flames, instantly waked my wife
and daughter ; and all running out, naked, and wild
with apprehension, recalled me to life with their anguish.
But it was only to objects of new terror ; for the flames
had, by this time, caught the roof of our dwelling, part
after part continuing to fall in, while the family stood,
with silent agony, looking on, as if they enjoyed the
blaze. I gazed upon them and upon it by turns, and
then looked round me for my two little ones ; but they
were not to be seen. O misery ! " Where," cried I,
u where are my little ones?" — "They are burnt to
death in the. flames," said my wife calmly, " and I will
die with them." That moment I heard the cry of the
babes within, who were just awaked by the fire, and
XXII
LOVE EASILY PARDONS OFFENCES
205
nothing could have stopped me. " Where, where are
my children ? " cried I, rushing through the flames, and
bursting the door of the chamber in which they were
confined ! — " Where are my little ones*? " — " Here, dear^
papa, here we are," cried they together, while the"'
flames were just catching the bed where they lay.
Wkile the family stood, -with, silent agony.
I caught them both in my arms, and snatched them
through the fire as fast as possible, while, just as I was
got out, the roof sunk in. " Now," cried I, holding up
my children, " now let the flames burn on, and all my
possessions perish. Here they are ; I have saved my
treasure. Here, my dearest, here are our treasures, and
we shall yet be happy." We kissed our little darlings
a thousand times ; they clasped us round the neck, and
206
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD # chap.
while their mother
seemed to share our transports,
laughed and wept by turns.
I now stood a calm spectator of the flames ; and,
after some time,*began to perceive that my arm to the
shoulder was scorched in a terrible manner. It was
therefore, out of my power to give my son any assist-
<^r<? ( dear Jafia,
/Qre coe are
ance, either in attempting to save our goods, or pre-
venting the flames spreading to our corn. By this
time the neighbours were alarmed, and came running
to our assistance ; but all they could do was to stand,
• like us — spectators of the calamity.
My goods, among which were the notes I had
xxii LOVE EASILY PARDONS OFFENCES 207
reserved for my daughters' fortunes, were entirely con-
sumed, except a box with some papers that stood in the
kitchen, and two or three things more of little conse-
quence, which my son brought away^n the beginning.
The neighbours contributed, however, what they could
to lighten our distress. They brought us clothes, and
furnished one of our outhouses with kitchen utensils ;
so that by daylight we had another, though a wretched
dwelling to retire to. My honest next neighbour and
his children were not the least assiduous in providing
us with everything necessary, and offering whatever
consolation untutored benevolence could suggest.
When the fears of my family had subsided, curiosity
to know the cause of my long stay began to take^
place : having therefore informed them of every parti- S
cular, I proceeded to prepare them for the reception of
our lost one ; and though we had nothing but wretched-
ness now to impart, I was willing to procure her a
welcome to what we had. This task would have been ^
more difficult but for our recent calamity, which had
humbled my wife's pride, and blunted it by more
poi gnant , afflictions. Being unable to go for my poor
child myself, as my arm grew very painful, I sent my
son and daughter, who soon returned, supporting the
wretched delinquent, who had not the courage to look ^
up at her mother, whom no instructions of mine could
persuade to a perfect reconciliation ; for women have a
much stronger sense of female error than men. " Ah,
Madam," cried her- mother, " this is but a poor place
you are come to after so much finery. My daughter
Sophy and I can afford but little entertainment to
persons who have kept company only with people of
distinction. Yes, Miss Livy, your poor father and I
208 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap, xxii
have suffered very much of late ; but I hope Heaven
will forgive you." During this reception, the unhappy
victim stood pale and trembling, unable to weep or to
reply : but I coi!ld not continue a silent spectator of
her distress ; wherefore, assuming a degree of severity
in my voice and manner, which was ever followed with
instant submission, " I entreat, woman, that my words
may be now marked once for all : I have here brought
you back a poor deluded wanderer ; her return to duty
demands the revival of our tenderness. The real hard-
ships of life are now coming fast upon us ; let us not,^
therefore, increase them by dissension among each
other. If we live harmoniously together, we may yet
> be contented, as there are enough of us to shut out the
censuring world, and keep each other in countenance.
The kindness of Heaven is promised to the penitent,
and let ours be directed by the example. Heaven, we
"» are assured, is much more pleased to view a repentant
sinner, than ninety-nine persons who have supported a
course of undeviating rectitude. And this is right ;
for that single effort by which we stop short in the
down-hill path to perdition, is itself a greater exertion
of virtue than a hundred acts of justice."
Qvapter¥K\K~
oJVonc 68t ifie Cfa&y can 6ejcv^ ccncf C&mn@£efy
\Ome assiduity was n#w required to make
our present abode as convenient as pos-
sible, and w£ were soon again qualified
to enjoy our former serenity. Being disabled my-
self from assisting my son in our usual occupations,
I read • to my family from the few books that were
saved, and particularly from such as, by amusing the
imagination, contributed to ease the heart. Our good
neighbours, too, came every day, with the kindest
condolence, and fixed a time in which they were all to
assist at repairing my former dwelling. Honest Farmer
Williams was not last among these visitors ; but heartily
offered his frkndship. He would even have renewed
his addresses ro my daughter ; but she rejected him in
such a manner, as totally repressed his future solicita-
tions. Her grief seemed formed for continuing, and
she was the oply person of our little „ society that a **
week did not restore to cheerfulness. She now lost
P
210 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
that unblushing innocence which once taught her to
C respect herself, and to seek pleasure by pleasing.
Anxiety now had taken strong possession of her mind ;
her beauty began to be impaired with her constitution,
and neglect still more contributed to diminish it. Every
tender epithet bestowed on her sister brought a pang
to her heart, and a tear to her eye ; and as one vice,
though cured, ever plants others where it has been, so
her former guilt, though driven out by repentance, left
jealousy and envy behind. I strove a thousand ways
to lessen her care, and even forgot my own pain in a
concern for hers, collecting such amusing passages of
history as a strong memory and some reading could
suggest. " Our happiness, my dear," I^would say, " is
in the power of One who can bring it about a thousand
xxin THE GUILTY ALONE COMPLETELY MISERABLE 211
unforeseen ways, that mock our foresight. If example
be necessary to prove this, I'll give you a story, my
child, told us by a grave though sometimes a romancing
historian.
" Matilda was married very young to a Neapolitan
nobleman of the first quality, and found herself a widow
and a mother at the age of fifteen. As she stood one
day caressing her infant son in the open window of an
apartment which hung over the river Volturna, the
child with a sudden spring leaped from her arms into
the flood below, and disappeared in a moment. The/^J
mother, struck with instant surprise, and making an
effort to save him, plunged in after ; but far from being
able to assist the infant, sfce herself with great difficulty
escaped to the opposite shore, just when some French
soldiers were plundering the country on that side, who
immediately made her their prisoner.
" As the war was then carried on between the
French and Italians with the utmost inhumanity, they
were going at once to perpetrate those two extremes
suggested by appetite and cruelty. This base resolution,
however, was opposed by a young officer, who, though
their retreat required the utmost expedition, placed her
behind him, and brought her in safety to his native
city. Her beauty at first caught his eye ; her merit,
soon after, his heart. They were married : he rose to
the highest posts ; they lived long together, and were
happy. But the felicity of a_soldlercan never be called^,
permanent : after an interval of several years, the troops /
which he commanded having met with a repulse, he
was obliged to take shelter in the city where he had
lived with his wife. Here they suffered a siege, and
the city at length was taken. Few histories can pro-
212 THE CHAP.
duce more various mstanc ; c 1 cruelty than those
which the French and Italians at that time exercised
upon each other. It was resolved by the victors, upon
this occasion, to put all the French prisoners to death ;
but particularly the husband of the unfortunate Matilda,
as he was principally instrumental in protracting the
siege. Their determinations were, in general, executed
almost as soon as resolved upon. * The captive soldier
was led forth, and the executioner with his sword stood
ready, while the spectators in gloomy silence awaited
the fatal blow, which was only suspended till the
general who presided as judge should give the signal.
It was in this interval of anguish and expectation that
Matilda came to take her last farewell of her husband
and deliverer, deploring her wretched situation, and the
cruelty of fate, that had saved her from perishing by a
premature death in the river Volturna, to be the
' spectator of still greater calamities. The general, who
was a young man, was struck with surprise at her
beauty, and pity at her distress ; but with still stronger
emotions when he heard her mention her former dangers.
He was her son, the infant for whom she had en-
countered so much danger. He acknowledged her at
once as his mother, and fell at her feet. The rest may
be easily supposed : the captive was set free, and all
the happiness that love, friendship, and duty could
confer on each, were united."
In this- manner I would attempt to amuse my
daughter : ' but she listened with divided attention ; for
• her own misfortunes engrossed all the pity she once
had for those of another, and nothing gave her ease.
In company she dreaded contempt ; and in solitude
she only found anxiety. Such was the colour of her
xxiii THE GUILTY -&U
MPLETELY MISERABLE 213
wretchedness, when \^e received certain information
that Mr. Thornhill was going to be married to Miss
Wilmot, for whom I always suspected he had a real
passion, though he took every opportunity before me
to express his contempt both of her person and fortune.
This news only served to increase poor Olivia's afflic-
tion : such a flagrant breach of infidelity was more than
her courage could support. I was resolved, however,
to get more certain information, and to defeat, if
possible, the completion of his designs, by sending my
son to old Mr. Wilmot's, with instructions to know the
truth of the report, and to deliver Miss Wilmot a letter,
intimating Mr. Thornhill's conduct in my family. My
son went in pursuance of my directions, and in three
days returned, assuring us of the truth of the account ;
214 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
but that he had found it impossible to deliver the
letter, which he was therefore obliged to leave, as Mr.
Thornhill and Miss Wilmot were visiting round the
country. They were to be married, he said, in a few
days, having appeared together at church the Sunday
before he was there, in great splendour, the bride
attended by six young ladies, and he by as many
gentlemen. Their approaching nuptials filled the
whole country with rejoicing, and they usually rode
out together in the grandest equipage that had been
seen in the country for many years. All the friends of
both families, he said, were there, particularly the
Squire's uncle, Sir William Thornhill, who bore so
good a character. He added, that nothing but mirth
and feasting were going forward ; that all the country
praised the young bride's beauty, and the bridegroom's
fine person, and that they were immensely fond of each
other ; concluding, that he could not help thinking
Mr. Thornhill one of the most happy men in the
world.
" Why, let him, if he can," returned I : " but, my
son, observe this bed of straw and unsheltering roof;
those mouldering walls and humid floor ; my wretched
body thus disabled by fire, and my children weeping
round me for bread : you have come home, my child,
to all this ; yet here, even here, you see a man that
would not for a thousand worlds exchange situations.
f Oh, my children, if you could but learn to commune
with your own hearts, and know what noble company
you can make them, you would little regard the
elegance and splendour of the worthless. Almost all
men have been taught to call life a passage, and.
themselves the travellers. The similitude still may be
xxin THE GUILTY ALONE COMPLETELY MISERABLE 21$
improved, when we observe that the good are joyful and
serene, like travellers that are going towards home ; the
wicked but by intervals happy, like travellers that are
going into exile."
My compassion for my poor daughter, overpowered
by this new disaster, interrupted what I had further to
observe. I bade her mother support her, and after a
short time she recovered. She appeared from that
time more calm, and I imagined had gained a new
degree of resolution ; but appearances deceived me :
for her tranquillity was the languor of over-wrought
resentment. A supply of provisions, charitably sent us
by my kind parishioners, seemed to diffuse new
cheerfulness among the rest of the family, nor was I
displeased at seeing them once more sprightly and
at ease. It would have been unjust to damp their
satisfactions, merely to condole with resolute melan-
choly, or to burden them with a sadness they did not
feel. Thus, once more the tale went round, and the
song was demanded, and cheerfulness condescended to
hover round our little habitation.
Q&pie
*Vfc
\aptef .xxiv.
f/\f next morning the sun arose with peculiar
warmth for the season, so that we agreed to
breakfast together on the honeysuckle bank ;
where, while we sat, my youngest daughter at rhy
request joined her voice to the concert on the trees
about us. It was in this place my poor Olivia first
met her seducer, and every object served to recall her
sadness. But that melancholy which is excited by
objects of pleasure, or inspired by sounds of harmony,
soothes the heart instead of corroding it. Her mother,
too, upon this occasion, felt a pleasing distress, and
wept, and loved her daughter as before. " Do, my
pretty Olivia," cried she, " let us have that little
melancholy air your papa was so fond of ; your sister
Sophy has already obliged- us. Do, child; it will
please your old father." She complied in a manner so
exquisitely pathetic as moved me :
When lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her riielancholy ?
What art can wash her guilt away ?
chap, xxiv FRESH CALAMITIES 217
The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom, is — to die.
As she was concluding the last stanza, to which an
interruption in her voice from sorrow gave peculiar
softness, the appearance of Mr. Thornhill's equipage at
a distance alarmed us all, but particularly increased the
uneasiness of my eldest daughter, who, desirous of
shunning her betrayer, returned to the house with her
sister. In a few minutes he was alighted from his
chariot, and making up to the place where I was still
sitting, inquired after my health with his usual air of
familiarity. " Sir," replied I, " your present assurance
only serves to aggravate the baseness of your character ;
and there was a time when I would have chastised
your insolence for presuming thus to appear before me.
But now you are safe ; for age has cooled my passions,
and my calling restrains them."
" I vow, my dear Sir," returned he, " I am amazed at
all this ; nor can I understand what it means ! I hope
you don't think your daughter's late excursion with me
had anything criminal in it ? "
" Go," cried I ; " thou art a wretch, a poor, pitiful
wretch, and every way a liar : but your meanness
secures you from my anger ! Yet, Sir, I am descended
from a family that would not have borne this ! — And
so, thou vile thing, to gratify a momentary passion,
thou hast made one poor creature wretched for life, and
polluted a family that had nothing but honour for their
portion ! "
"If she or you," returned he, "are resolved to be,
miserable, I cannot help it. But you may still be
2l8
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
CHAP.
(\ootd my
happy ; and whatever opinion you may have formed of
me, you shall ever find me ready to contribute to it.
We can marry her to 'another in a short time; and,
xxiv FRESH CALAMITIES 219
what is more, she may keep her lover beside ; for I
protest I shall ever continue to have a true regard
for her."
I found all my passions alarmed at this new degrad-
ing proposal ; for though the mind may often be calm
under great injuries, little villainy can at any time get
within the soul, and sting it into rage. — " Avoid my
sight, thou reptile ! " cried I, " nor continue to insult
me with thy presence. Were my brave son at home,
he would not suffer this ; but I am old and disabled,
and every way undone."
" I find," cried he, " you are bent upon obliging me
to talk in a harsher manner than I intended. But as
I have shown you what may be hoped from my friend-
ship, it may not be improper to represent what may be
the consequences of my resentment. My attorney, to
whom your late bond has been transferred, threatens
hard ; nor do I know how to prevent the course of
justice, except by paying the money myself; which, as
I have been at some expenses lately previous to my
intended marriage, is not so easy to be done. And
then my steward talks of driving for the rent ; it is
certain he knows his duty ; for I never trouble myself
with affairs of that nature. Yet still I could wish to
serve you, and even to have you and your daughter
present at my marriage, which is shortly to be solem-
nised with Miss Wilmot ; it is even the request of my
charming Arabella herself, whom I hope you will not
refuse."
" Mr. Thornhill," replied I, " hear me once for all :
as to your marriage with any but my daughter, that I
never will consent to ; and though your friendship
could raise me to a throne, or your resentment sink me
220 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
to the grave, /yet would I despise both. Thou hast
once wofully, irreparably deceived me. I reposed my
heart upon thine honour, and have found its baseness.
Never more, therefore, expect friendship from me. Go,
and possess what fortune has given thee — beauty,
riches, health, and pleasure. Go, and leave me to want,
infamy, disease, and sorrow. Yet, humbled as I am,
shall my heart still vindicate its dignity ; and though
* thou hast my forgiveness, thou shalt ever have my
contempt."
" If so," returned he, " depend upon it you shall feel
the effects of this insolence : and we shall shortly see
which is the fittest object of scorn, you or me." — Upon
which he departed abruptly.
My wife and son, who were present at this interview,
seemed terrified with apprehension. My daughters
also, finding that he was gone, came out to be informed
of the result of our conference, which, when known,
alarmed them not less than the rest. But as to myself,
I disregarded the utmost stretch of his malevolence :
he had already struck the blow, and now I stood pre-
pared to repel every new effort, like one of those
instruments used in the art of war, which, however
thrown, still presents a point to receive the enemy.
We soon, however, found that he had not threatened
in vain ; for the very next morning his steward came
to demand my annual rent, which, by the train of
accidents already related, I was unable to pay. The
consequence of my incapacity was his driving my cattle
that evening, and their being appraised and sold the
next day for less than half their value. My wife and
children now therefore entreated me to comply upon
any terms, rather than incur certain destruction. They
XXIV
FRESH CALAMITIES
even begged of me to admit his visits once more, and
used all their little eloquence to paint the calamities I
was going to endure, — the terrors of a prison in so
rigorous a season as the present, with the danger that
06 dernccncf>r*y cinniwC U&rifc
threatened my health from the late accident that
happened by the fire. But I continued inflexible.
" Why, my treasures," cried I, " why will you thus
attempt to persuade me to the thing that is not right?
My duty has taught me to forgive him ; but my con-
science will not permit me to approve. Would you
222 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
.have me applaud to the world what my heart must
internally condemn ? Would you have me tamely sit
down and flatter our infamous betrayer ; and, to avoid
a prison, continually suffer the more galling bonds of
"mental confinement ? No, never ! If we are to be
taken from this abode, only let us hold to the right ;
and wherever we are thrown, we can still retire to a
, charming apartment, when we can look round our own
hearts with intrepidity and with pleasure ! "
In this manner we spent that evening. Early the
next morning, as the snow had fallen in great abundance
in the night, my son was employed in clearing it away,
and opening a passage before the door. He had not
been thus engaged long, when he came running in,
with looks all pale, to tell us that two strangers, whom
he knew to be officers of justice, were making towards
the house.
Just as he spoke they came in, and approaching the
bed where I lay, after previously informing me of their
employment and business, made me their prisoner,
bidding me prepare to go with them to the county
gaol, which was eleven miles off.
" My friends," said I, " this is severe weather in
which you have come to take me to a prison ; and it
is particularly unfortunate at this time, as one of my
arms has lately been burnt in a terrible manner, and *it
has thrown me into a slight fever, and I want clothes
to cover me, and I am now too weak and old to walk
far in such deep snow ; but, if it must be so " •
I then turned to my wife and children, and directed
them to get together what few things were left us, and
to prepare immediately for leaving this place. I en-
treated them to be expeditious ; and desired my son
FRESH CALAMITIES
223
to assist his eldest sister, who, from a consciousness
that she was the cause of all our calamities, was fallen,
and had lost anguish in insensibility. I encouraged
my wife, who, pale and trembling, clasped our affrighted
little ones in her arms, that clung to her bosom in
silence, dreading to look round at the strangers. In
the meantime my youngest daughter prepared for our
departure, and as she received several hints to use
despatch, in about an hour we were ready to depart.
v^'l,
h(/
/Caf<J&me c/brt of '(cm/ort cdtendmy ttr
|r set forward from this peaceful neighbour-
hood, and walked on slowly. My eldest
daughter being enfeebled by a slow fever,
which had begun for some days to undermine her
constitution, one of the officers who had an horse kindly
took her behind him ; for even these men cannot
entirely divest themselves of humanity. # My son led
one. of the little ones by the hand, and my wife the
other, while I leaned upon my youngest girl, whose
r tears fell, not for her own, but my distresses.
We were now got from my late dwelling about two
miles, when we saw a crowd, running and shouting
behind us, consisting of about fifty of my poorest
parishioners. These, with dreadful imprecations, soon
seized upon the two officers of justice, and swearing
they would never see their minister go to gaol while
they had a drop of blood to shed in his defence, were
going to use them with great severity. The con-
chap, xxv NO SITUATION ENTIRELY WRETCHED
225
sequence might have been fatal, had I not immediately
interposed, and with some difficulty rescued the officers
from the hands of the enraged multitude. My children,
who looked upon my delivery now as certain, appeared
transported with joy, and were incapable of containing
their raptures. But they were soon undeceived, upon
hearing me address the poor deluded people, who came,
as they imagined, to do me service.
"What! my friends," cried I, "and is this the way
you love me ? Is this the manner you obey the
instructions I have given you from the pulpit ? Thus
to fly in the face of justice, and bring down ruin on
yourselves and me ? Which is your ringleader ? Show
me the man that has thus seduced you. As sure as
;he lives he shall feel my resentment. Alas ! my dear
deluded flock, return back to the duty you owe to God,
to your country, and to me. I shall yet perhaps one
Q
226 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
day see you in greater felicity here, and contribute to
make your lives more happy. But, let it at least be
my comfort, when I pen my fold for immortality, that
not one here shall be wanting."
They now seemed all repentance, and, melting into
tears, came one after the other to bid me farewell. I
shook each tenderly by the hand, and leaving them my
blessing, proceeded forward without meeting any further
interruption. Some hours before night, we reached the
town, or rather village, for it consisted but of a few
mean houses, having lost all its former opulence, and
retaining no marks of its ancient superiority but the
gaol.
Upon entering, we put up at an inn, where we had
such refreshments as could most readily be procured,
and I supped with my family with my usual cheerful-
ness. After seeing them properly accommodated for
that night, I next attended the sheriff's officers to the
prison, which had formerly been built for the purposes
of war, and consisted of one large apartment, strongly
grated, and paved with stone, common to both felons
and debtors at certain hours in the four-and-twenty.
Besides this, every prisoner had a separate cell, where
he was locked in for the night.
I expected, upon my entrance, to find nothing but
lamentations and various sounds of misery ; but it was
very different. The prisoners seemed all employed in
one common design, that of forgetting thought in
merriment or clamour. I was apprised of the usual
perquisite required upon these occasions, and imme- '
diately complied with the demand, though the little
money I had was very near being all exhausted. This
was immediately sent away for liquor, and the whole ■
xxv NO SITUATION ENTIRELY WRETCHED 227
prison was soon filled with riot, laughter,, and pro-
faneness.
" How," cried I to myself, " shall men so very
" wicked be cheerful, and shall I be melancholy ? I feel
only the same confinement with them, and I think I
have more reason to be happy."
With such reflections I laboured to become cheer-
ful ; but cheerfulness was never yet produced by
^ effort, which is itself painful. As I was sitting, there-
fore, in a corner of the gaol, in a pensive posture, one
of my fellow-prisoners came up, and, sitting by me,
entered into conversation. It was my constant rule in
^ life never to avoid the conversation of any man who
seemed to desire it : for if good, I might profit by his
^ instruction ; if bad, he might be assisted by mine. I
found this to be a knowing man, of strong unlettered
sense, but a thorough knowledge of the world, as it is
called, or, more properly speaking, of human nature on
the wrong side. He asked me if I had taken care to
provide myself with a bed, which was a circumstance I
had never once attended to.
" That's unfortunate," cried he, " as you are allowed
here nothing but straw, and your apartment is very large
and cold. However, you seem to be something of a
gentleman, and, as I have been one myself in my time,
part of my bed-clothes are ^heartily at your service."
^t I thanked him, professing my surprise at finding
such humanity in a gaol in misfortunes ; adding, to let
him see that I was a scholar, "That the sage ancient
seemed to understand the value of company in affliction,
when he said Ton kosmon aire, ei dos ton etairon ; and,
in fact," continued I, " what is the world if it affords
only solitude ? "
228
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
/ " You talk of the world, Sir," returned my fellow-
prisoner ; " the world is in its dotage ; and yet the
cosmogony or creation of the world has puzzled the
philosophers of every age. What a medley of opinions
' < 5toatfatf^<yC#)Q <^or(d ) jir
have they not broached upon the creation of the world!
Sanchoniathon, Manetho, Berosus, and Ocellus Lucanus,
have all attempted it in vain. The latter has these
words, Anarchon ara kai atelntaion to pan, which
implies " — " I ask pardon, Sir," cried I, (( for interrupting
xxv NO SITUATION ENTIRELY WRETCHED 229
so much learning ; but I think I have heard all this
before. Have I not had the pleasure of once seeing
you at Wellbridge fair, and is not your name Ephraim
Jenkinson?" At this demand he only sighed. "I
suppose you must recollect," resumed I, " one Doctor
Primrose, from whom you bought a horse ? "
He now at once recollected me ; for the gloominess of
the place and the approaching night had prevented his
distinguishing my features before. " Yes, Sir," returned
Mr. Jenkinson, " I remember you perfectly well ; I
bought a horse, but forgot to pay for him. Your
neighbour Flamborough is the only prosecutor I am
any way afraid of at the next assizes ; for he intends
to swear positively against me as a coiner. I am
heartily sorry, Sir, I ever deceived you, or indeed any
man; for you see," continued he, showing his shackles,
" what my tricks have brought me to."
" Well, Sir," replied I, " your kindness in offering me
assistance when you could expect no return, shall be
repaid with my endeavours to soften, or totally suppress
Mr. Flamborough's evidence, and I will send my son to
him for that purpose the first opportunity ; nor do I in
the least doubt but he will comply with my request ;
and as to my own evidence, you need be under no
uneasiness about that."
" Well, Sir," cried he, " all the return I can make
shall be yours. You shall have more than half my
bed-clothes to-night, and I'll take care to stand your
friend in the prison, where I think I have some
influence."
I thanked him, and could not avoid being surprised
at the present youthful change in his aspect ; for at the
time I had seen him before, he appeared at least sixty.
230
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
" Sir," answered he, " you are little acquainted with the
world ; I had, at that time, false hair, and have learnt
the art of counterfeiting every age from seventeen to
seventy. Ah, Sir ! had I but bestowed half the pains
**in learning a trade that I have in learning to be a
scoundrel, I might have been a rich man at this day.
But, rogue as I am, still I may be your friend/ and
that, perhaps, when you least expect it."
We were now prevented from further conversation
NO SITUATION ENTIRELY WRETCHED
231
by the arrival of the gaoler's servants, who came to call
over the prisoners' names, and lock up for the night.
A fellow also, with a bundle of straw for my bed,
attended, who led me along a dark narrow passage, into
a room paved like the common prison, and in one
corner of this I spread my bed, and the clothes given me
by my fellow-prisoner ; which done, my conductor, who
was civil enough, bade me a good-night. After my
usual meditations,' and having praised my Heavenly
Corrector, I laid myself down, and slept with the
utmost tranquillity till morning.
<A jyormcttc'on, m tfc QaoC: to mcr/£e &o*r Comf^ i%
IjfA? next morning early, I was awakened
by my family, whom I found in tears
at my bedside. The gloomy strength
of everything about us, it seems, had daunted them.
I gently rebuked their sorrow, assuring them I
had never slept with greater tranquillity; and next
inquired after my eldest daughter, who was not among
them. They informed me that yesterday's uneasi-
ness and fatigue had increased her fever, and it was
judged proper to leave- her behind. My next care was
to send my son to procure a room or two to lodge the
family in, as near the prison as conveniently could be
found. He obeyed ; but could only find one apart-
ment, which was hired at a small expense for his
mother and sisters, the gaoler, with humanity, consent-
ing to let him and his two little brothers lie in the
chap, xxvi A REFORMATION IN THE GAOL 233
prison with me. A bed was therefore prepared for r
them in a corner of the room, which I thought answered
very conveniently. I was willing, however, previously
to know whether my little children chose to lie in a"~
place which seemed to fright them upon entrance.
" Well," cried I, " my good boys, how do you like
your bed ? I hope you are not afraid to lie in this
room, dark as it appears ? "
" No, papa," says Dick, " I am not afraid to lie any-
where, where you are."
" And I," says Bill, who was yet but four years old,
" love every place best that my papa is in."
After this I allotted to each of the family what
they were to do. My daughter was particularly directed
to watch her declining sister's health ; my wife was to
attend me ; my little boys were to read to me : " And
as for you, my son," continued I, " it is by the labour
of your hands we must all hope to be supported.
Your wages as a day-labourer will be fully sufficient,
with proper frugality, to maintain us all, and comfort-
ably too. Thou art now sixteen years old, and hast
strength ; and it was given thee, my son, for very use-
ful purposes ; for it must save from famine your help-
less parents and family/ Prepare then, this evening, to
look out for work against to-morrow, and bring home
every night what money you earn for our support."
Having thus instructed him, and settled the rest, I
walked down to the common prison, where I could
enjoy more air and room. But I was not long there
when the execrations, lewdness, and brutality that
invaded me on every side, drove me back to my apart-
ment again. Here I sat for some time pondering upon
the strange infatuation of wretches, who, finding all
234 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
mankind in open arms against them, were labouring to
make themselves a future and a tremendous enemy.
Their insensibility excited my highest compassion,
and blotted my own uneasiness from my mind. It
even appeared a duty incumbent upon me to attempt
to reclaim them. I resolved, therefore, once more to
return, and, in spite of their contempt, to give them my
advice, and conquer them by my perseverance. Going,
therefore, among them again, I informed Mr. Jenkinson
of my design, at which he laughed heartily, but
communicated it to the rest. The proposal was re-
ceived with the greatest good humour, as it promised
to afford a new fund of entertainment to persons who
had now no other resource for mirth but what could be
derived from ridicule or debauchery.
I therefore read them a portion of the service with
a loud, unaffected voice, and found my audience per-
fectly merry upon the occasion. Lewd whispers, groans
of contrition burlesqued, winking and coughing, alter-
nately excited laughter. However, I continued with
my natural solemnity to read on, sensible that what I
did might mend some, but could itself receive no con-
tamination from any.
After reading, I entered upon my exhortation, which
was rather calculated at first to amuse them than to
reprove. I previously observed, that no other motive
but their welfare could induce me to this ; that I was
their fellow-prisoner, and now got nothing by preaching.
I was sorry, I said, to hear them so very profane ;
because they got nothing by it, but might lose a great
deal : " For be assured, my friends," cried I, — " for
you are my friends, however the world may disclaim
our friendship, — though you swore twelve thousand
XXVI
A REFORMATION IN THE GAOL
235
oaths in a day, it would not put one penny in your
purse. Then what signifies calling every moment upon
the devil, and courting his friendship, since you find
how scurvily he uses you ? He has given you nothing
here, you find, but a mouthful of oaths and an empty
belly ; and, by the best accounts I have of him, he will
give you nothing that's good hereafter.
" If used ill in our dealings with one man, we natur-
ally go elsewhere. Were it not worth your while, then,
just to try how you may like the usage of another
master, who gives you fair promises at least to come to
him ? Surely, my friends, of all stupidity in the world,
his must be the greatest, who, after robbing a house,
236
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
runs to the thief-takers for protection. And yet, how
are you more wise ? You are all seeking comfort from
one that has already betrayed you, applying to a more
ycoearaiy tf<x(> Scucy <x very f)oT)2j'$'Jk((c(.<i'
malicious being than any thief-taker of them all ; for
they only decoy and then hang you ; but he decoys
and hangs, and, what is worst of all, will not let you
loose after the hangman has done."
When I had concluded, I received the compliments
xxvi A REFORMATION IN THE GAOL 237
of my audience, some of whom came and v shook me by
the hand, swearing that I was a very honest fellow, and
that they desired my further acquaintance. I therefore
promised to repeat my lecture next day, and actually
conceived some hopes of making a reformation here ;
for it had ever been my opinion, that no man was past^
the hour of amendment, every heart lying open to the F~
shafts of reproof, if the archer could but take a proper
aim. When I had thus satisfied my mind, I went back
to my apartment, where my wife prepared a frugal
meal, while Mr. Jenkinson begged leave to add his
dinner to ours, and partake of the pleasure, as he was
kind enough to express it, of my conversation. He
had not yet seen my family ; for as they came to my
apartment by a door in the narrow passage already
described, by this means they avoided the common
prison. Jenkinson at the first interview, therefore,
seemed not a little struck with the beauty of my
youngest daughter, which her pensive air contributed to
heighten ; and my little^ones did not pass unnoticed.
" Alas, Doctor," cried he, " these children are too
handsome and too good for such a place as this ! "
" Why, Mr. Jenkinson," replied I, " thank Heaven,
my children are pretty tolerable in morals ; and if they
be good, it matters little for the rest."
" I fancy, Sir," returned my fellow-prisoner, " that it
must give you great comfort to have all this little
family about you."
" A comfort, Mr. Jenkinson ! " replied I ; " yes, it is
indeed a comfort, and I would not be without them for
all the world ; for they can make a dungeon seem a
palace. There is but one way in this life of wounding
my happiness, and that is by injuring them."
238 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
" I am afraid then, Sir," cried he, " that I am in
some measure culpable ; for I think I see here (looking
at my son Moses) one that I have injured, and by
whom I wish to be forgiven."
My son immediately recollected his voice and
features, though he had before seen him in disguise,
and taking him by the hand, with a smile, forgave him.
" Yet," continued he, " I can't help wondering at what
you could see in my face, to think me a proper mark
for deception."
" My dear Sir," returned the other, " it was not your
face, but your white stockings, and the black ribbon in
your hair, that allured me. But, no disparagement to
your parts, I have deceived wiser men than you in my
time ; and yet, with all my tricks, the blockheads have
been too many for me at last."
" I suppose," cried my son, " that the narrative of
such a life as yours must be extremely instructive and
amusing."
" Not much of either," returned Mr. Jenkinson.
" Those relations which describe the tricks and vices
only of mankind, by increasing our suspicion in life,
retard our success. The" traveller that distrusts every
person he meets, and turns back upon the appearance
of every man that looks like a robber, seldom arrives
in time at his journey's end.
" Indeed, I think, from my own experience, that the
knowing one is the silliest fellow under the sun. I was
thought cunning from my very childhood : when but
seven years old, the ladies would say that I was a
perfect little man ; at fourteen, I knew the world,
cocked my hat, and loved the ladies ; at twenty, though
I was perfectly honest, yet every one thought me so
xxvi A REFORMATION IN THE GAOL 239
cunning, that not one would trust me. Thus I was at
last obliged to turn sharper in my own defence, and have
lived ever since, my head throbbing with schemes to
^deceive, and my heart palpitating with fears of detection.
I used often to laugh at your honest simple neighbour
Flamborough, and, one way or another, generally
OfyicC GoecTtG &fa?
%
cheated him once a year. Yet still the honest man
went forward without suspicion, and grew rich, while
I still continued tricksy and cunning, and was poor,
without the consolation of being honest. However,"
continued he, " let me know your case, and what has
240
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
CHAP. XXVI
brought you here ; perhaps, though I have not skill to
avoid a gaol myself, I may extricate my friends."
In compliance with his curiosity, I informed him of
the whole train of accidents and follies that had plunged
me into my present troubles, and my utter inability to
get free.
After hearing my story, and pausing some minutes,
he slapped his forehead, as if he had hit upon something
material, and took his leave, saying, he would try what
could be done.
\£ next morning I communicated to my
wife and children the scheme I had
planned of reforming the prisoners,
which they received with universal
disapprobation, alleging the impossi-
bility and impropriety of it ; adding that my endeavours
would no way contribute to their amendment, but might
probably disgrace my calling.
" Excuse me," returned I ; " these people, however
fallen, are still men ; and that is a very good title to
my affections. Good counsel rejected, returns to enrich
the giver's bosom ; and though the instruction I com-
municate may not mend them, yet it will assuredly
mend myself. If. these wretches, my children, were
princes, there would be thousands ready to offer their
ministry ; but, in my opinion, the heart that is buried
R
242 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
in a dungeon is as precious as that seated upon a throne.
Yes, my treasures, if I can mend them, I will : perhaps
they will not all despise me. Perhaps I may catch up
even one from the gulf, and that will be great gain ; for
is there upon earth a gem so precious as the human
soul?"
Thus saying, I left them, and descended to the
common prison, where I found the prisoners very
merry, expecting my arrival ; and each prepared with
some gaol trick to play upon the Doctor. Thus, as I
was going to begin, one turned my wig awry, as if by
accident, and then asked my pardon. A second, who
stood at some distance, had a knack of spitting through
his teeth, which fell in showers upon my book. A
third would cry Amen in such an affected tone, as
gave the rest great delight. A fourth had slyly picked
my pocket of my spectacles. But there was one whose
trick gave more universal pleasure than all the rest ;
for, observing the manner in which I had disposed my
books on the table before me, he very dexterously
displaced one of them, and put an obscene jest-book
of his own in the place. However, I took no notice of
all that this mischievous group of little beings could
do, but went on, perfectly sensible that what was
ridiculous in my attempt would excite mirth only the
first or second time, while what was serious would be
permanent. My design succeeded, and in less than
six days some were penitent, and all attentive.
It was now that I applauded my perseverance and
address, at thus giving sensibility to wretches divested
of every moral feeling, and now .began to think of
doing them temporal services also, by rendering their
situation somewhat more comfortable. Their time had
xxvn THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED 243
hitherto been divided between famine and excess,
tumultuous riot and bitter repining. Their only em-
ployment was quarrelling among each other, playing at
cribbage, and cutting tobacco-stoppers. From this
last mode of idle industry I took the hint of setting
such as chose to work at cutting pegs for tobacconists
and shoemakers, the proper wood being bought by
a general subscription, and, when manufactured, sold
by my appointment ; so that each earned something
every day — a trifle indeed, but sufficient to maintain
him.
I did not stop here, but instituted fines for the
punishment of immorality, and rewards for peculiar
industry. Thus, in less than a fortnight I had formed
them into something social and humane, and had the
pleasure of regarding myself as a legislator, who had
brought men from their native ferocity into friendship
and obedience.
And it were highly to be wished, that legislative
power would thus direct the law rather to reformation
than severity ; that it would seem convinced that the
work of eradicating crimes is not by making punish-
ments familiar, but formidable. Then, instead of our
present prisons, which find or make men guilty, which
enclose wretches for the commission of one crime, and
return them, if returned alive, fitted for the perpetration
of thousands ; we should see, as in other parts of
Europe, places of penitence and solitude, where the
accused might be attended by such as could give them
• repentance, if guilty, or new motives to virtue, if
innocent. And this, but not the increasing punish-
ments, is the way to mend a State. Nor can I avoid
even questioning the validity of that right which social
244 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
combinations have assumed, of capitally punishing
offences of a slight nature. In cases of murder, their
right is obvious, as it is the duty of us all, from the
law of self-defence, to cut off that man who has shown
a disregard for the life of another. Against such, all
nature rises in arms ; but it is not so against him who
steals my property. Natural law gives me no right to
take away his life, as, by that, the horse he steals is as
much his property as mine. If, then, I have any
right,* it must be from a compact made between us,
that he who deprives the other of his horse shall die.
\ But this is a false compact ; because no man has a
) & right to barter his life no more than to take it away,
as it is not his own. And besides, the compact is
^inadequate, and would be set aside, even in a court of
modern equity, as there is a great penalty for a very
trifling convenience, since it is far better that two men
' should live than that one man should ride. But a
compact that is false between two men, is equally so
between a hundred or a hundred thousand ; for as
ten millions of circles can never make a square, so the
united voice of myriads cannot lend the smallest
foundation to falsehood. It is thus that reason
speaks, and untutored nature says the same thing.
Savages, that are directed by natural law alone, are
very tender of the lives of each other ; they seldom
shed blood but to retaliate former cruelty.
Our Saxon ancestors, fierce as they were in war,
had but few executions in times of peace ; and, in
all commencing governments that have the print of
nature still strong upon them, scarce any crime is held
capital.
It is among the citizens of a refined community
xxvii THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED 245
that penal laws, which are in the hands of the rich, are
laid upon the poor. Government, while it grows older,
seems to acquire the moroseness of age ; and, as if our
property were become dearer in proportion as it in-
creased — as if the more enormous our wealth the more
extensive our fears — all our possessions are paled up
with new edicts every day, and hung round with
gibbets to scare every invader.
I cannot tell whether it is from the number of our
penal laws, or the licentiousness of our people, that this
country should show more convicts in a year than half
the dominions of Europe united. Perhaps it is owing
to both ; for they mutually produce each other. When,
by indiscriminate penal laws, a nation beholds the same
punishment affixed to dissimilar degrees of guilt, from
perceiving no distinction in the penalty, the people are
led to lose all sense of distinction in the crime, and
this distinction is the bulwark of all morality : thus the
multitude of laws produce new vices, and new vices call
for fresh restraints.
It were to be wished, then, that power, instead
of contriving new laws to punish vice ; instead of
drawing hard the cords of society till a convulsion
come to burst them ; instead of cutting away wretches
as useless before we have tried their utility ; instead of
converting correction into vengeance,- 1 — it were to be
wished that we tried the restrictive arts of government,
and made law the protector, but not the tyrant of the
people. We should then find that creatures, whose
souls are held as dross, only wanted the hand of a
refiner ; we should then find that creatures, now stuck
up for long tortures, lest luxury should feel a moment-
ary pang, might, if properly treated, serve to sinew the
246
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
CHAP. XXVII
state in times of danger ; that as their faces are like
ours, their hearts are so too ; that few minds are so
base as that perseverance cannot amend ; that a man
may see his last crime without dying for it ; and that
very little blood will serve to cement our security.
•**>&&%£&,
(Tyappinedir and c/^sery ratf/3r if& J&safe-cfJ/raden ce i&cn
ofWtu
rrtttt"
j»- 11 1 1 n i ) ? i ]' ! n~
/\fccT now been confined more than'
a fortnight, but had not since
my arrival been visited by my
dear Olivia, and I greatly longed
to see her. Having communicated I
my wishes to my wife, the next morning the
poor girl entered my apartment, leaning on
her sister's arm. The change which I saw in
her countenance struck me. The numberless graces
that once resided there were now fled, and the hand of
death seemed to have moulded every feature to alarm
me. Her temples were sunk, her forehead was tense,
and a fatal paleness sat upon her cheek.
" I am glad to see th^e, my dear/' cried I ; " but
why this dejection, Li\
I hope, my love, you have
too great a regard for me to permit disappointment
thus to undermine a life which I prize as my own.
Be cheerful, child, and we may yet see happier days."
" You have ever, Sir," replied she, " been kind to
me, and it adds to my pain that I shall never have an
opportunity of sharing that happiness you promise.
Happiness, I fear, is no longer reserved for me here ;
and I long to be rid of a place where I have only found
248
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
'arjchy ot) far Sifters am-)
distress. Indeed, Sir, I wish you would make a proper
submission to Mr. Thornhill ; it may in some measure
induce him to pity you, and it will give me relief in
dying." • ■
xxviii HAPPINESS AND MISERY 249
" Never, child," replied I ; " never will I be brought
to acknowledge my daughter a prostitute ; for though
the world may look upon your offence with scorn, let
it be mine to regard it as a mark of credulity, not of
guilt. My dear, I am no way miserable in this place,
however dismal it may seem ; and be assured, that
while you continue to bless me by living, he shall
never have my consent to make you more wretched by
marrying another."
After the departure of my daughter, my fellow-
prisoner, who was by at this interview, sensibly enough
expostulated on my obstinacy in refusing a submission
which promised to give me freedom. He observed,
that the rest of my family was not to be sacrificed to
the peace of one child alone, and she the only one who
had offended me. " Besides," added he, " I don't
know if it be just thus to obstruct the union of man
and wife, which you do at present, by refusing to
consent to a match you cannot hinder, but may render
unhappy."
" Sir," replied I, " you are unacquainted with the
man that oppresses us. I am very sensible that no
submission I can make could procure me liberty even
for an hour. I am told that even in this very room a
debtor of his, no later than last year, died for want.
But though my submission and approbation could
transfer me from hence to the, most beautiful apartment
he is possessed of, yet I would grant neither, as some-
thing whispers me that it would be giving a sanction
to adultery. While my daughter lives, no other
marriage of his shall ever be legal in my eye. Were
she removed, indeed, I should be the basest of men,
from any resentment of my own, to attempt putting
2$o THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
asunder those who wish for a union. No, villain as he
is, I should then wish him married, to prevent the
consequences of his future debaucheries. But now,
should I not be the most cruel of all fathers to sign an
instrument which must send my child to the grave,
merely to avoid a prison myself; and thus, to escape
one pang, break my child's heart with a thousand ? "
He acquiesced in the justice of this answer, but
could not avoid observing, that he feared my daughter's
life was already too much wasted to keep me long a
prisoner. " However," continued he, " though you
refuse to submit to the nephew, I hope you have no .
objections to laying your case before the uncle, who
has the first character in the kingdom for everything
that is just and good. I would advise you to send
him a letter by the post, intimating all his nephew's
ill-usage ; and my-life for it, that in three days you
shall have an answer." I thanked him for the hint,
and instantly set about complying ; but I wanted
paper, and unluckily all our money had been laid out
that morning in provisions : however, he supplied me.
For the three ensuing days I was in a state of
anxiety to know what reception my letter might meet
with ; but in the meantime was frequently solicited by
my wife to submit to any conditions rather than remain
here, and every hour received repeated accounts of the
decline of my daughter's health. * The third day and
the fourth arrived, but I received no answer to my
letter ; the complaints of a stranger against a favourite
nephew were no way likely to succeed ; so that these
hopes soon vanished like all my former. My mind,
however, still supported itself, though confinement and
bad air began to make a visible alteration in my health,
xxviii HAPPINESS AND MISERY 251
and my arm that had suffered in the fire grew worse.
My children, however, sat by me, and while I was
stretched on my straw, read to me by turns, or listened
and wept at my instructions. But my daughter's
health declined faster than mine : every message from
her contributed to increase my apprehensions and pain.
The fifth morning after I had written the letter which
was sent to Sir William Thornhill, I was alarmed with
an account that she was speechless. Now it was that
confinement was truly painful to me ; my soul was
bursting from its prison to be near the pillow of my
child, to comfort, to strengthen her, to receive her last
wishes, and teach her soul the way to Heaven ! An-
other account came : she was expiring, and yet I was
debarred the small comfort of weeping by her. My
fellow -prisoner, some time after, came with the last
account. He bade me be patient : she was dead !
The next morning he returned, and found me with my
two little ones, now my only companions, who were
using all their innocent efforts to comfort me. They
entreated to read to me, and bade me not to cry, for I
was now too old to weep. " And is not my sister an
angel now, papa ? " . cried the eldest ; " and why, then,
are you sorry for her ? I wish I were an angel out of
this frightful place, if my papa were with me." — " Yes,"
added my youngest darling, " Heaven, where my sister
is, is a finer place than this, and there are none but
good people there, and the people here are very bad."
Mr. Jenkinson interrupted their harmless prattle by
observing, that, now my daughter was no more, I should
seriously think of the rest of my family, and attempt
to save my own life, which was every day declining for
want of necessaries and wholesome air. He added
252
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
CHAP.
that it was now incumbent on me to sacrifice any pride
or resentment of my own to the welfare of those who
depended on me for support ; and that I was now,
both by reason and justice, obliged to try to reconcile
my landlord.
6)7)0 ccTjb yfar&f (o. Qomjoyd
Tpe
" Heaven be praised," replied I, " there is no pride
left me now : I should detest my own heart if I saw
either pride or resentment lurking there. On the
contrary, as my oppressor has been once my parish-
ioner, I hope one day to present him up an unpolluted
soul at the eternal tribunal. No, Sir, I have no resent-
xxvm HAPPINESS AND MISERY 253
ment now ; and though he has taken from me what I
held dearer than all his treasures, though he has wrung
my heart, — for I am sick almost to fainting, very sick,
my fellow -prisoner, — yet that shall never inspire me
£ with vengeance. I am now willing to approve his
marriage : and, if this submission can do him any
pleasure, let him know that if I have done him any
injury I am sorry for it."
Mr. Jenkinson took pen and ink, and wrote down
my submission nearly as I have expressed it, to which
I signed my name. My son was employed to carry
the letter to Mr. Thornhill, who was then at his seat in
the country. He went, and, in about six hours,
returned with a verbal answer. He had some difficulty,
he said, to get a sight of his landlord, as the servants
were insolent and suspicious : but he accidentally saw
him as he was going out upon business, preparing for
his marriage, which was to be in three days. He con-
tinued to inform us, that he stept up in the humblest
manner, and delivered the letter, which when Mr.
Thornhill had read, he said that all submission was now
too late and unnecessary ; that he heard , of our
application to his uncle, which met with the contempt
it deserved ; and, as for the rest, that all future
applications should be directed to his attorney, not to
him. He observed, however, that as he had a very
good opinion of the discretion of the two young ladies,
they might have been the most agreeable intercessors.
" Well, Sir," said I to my fellow-prisoner, " you now
discover the temper of the man that oppresses me. He
can at once be facetious and cruel : but, let him use
me as he will, I shall soon be free, in spite of all his
bolts to restrain me. I am now drawing towards an
254
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
abode that looks brighter as I approach it : this expecta-
tion cheers my afflictions, and though I leave an help-
less family of orphans behind me, yet they will not be
utterly forsaken : some friend, perhaps, will be found
to assist them for the sake of their poor father, and
some may charitably relieve them for the sake of their
heavenly Father."
Just as I spoke, my wife, whom I had not seen
xxvm HAPPINESS AND MISERY 255
that day before, appeared with looks of terror, and
making efforts, but unable, to speak. " Why, my love,"
cried I, •" why will you thus increase my afflictions by
your own? What though no submissions can turn our
severe master, though he has doomed me to die in
this place of wretchedness, and though we have lost a
darling child, yet still you will find comfort in your
other children when I shall be no more." — " We have
indeed lost," returned she, "a darling child. My
Sophia, my dearest, is gone ; snatched from us, carried
off by ruffians ! " — " How, Madam," cried my fellow-
prisoner, " Miss Sophia carried off by villains ! sure it
cannot be ? "
She could only answer by a fixed look, and a flood
of tears. But one of the prisoners' wives who was
present, and came in with her, gave us a more distinct
account : she informed us, that as my wife, my daughter,
and herself were taking a walk together on the great
road, a little way out of the village, a post-chaise and
pair drove up to them, and instantly stopped ; upon
•which a well-dressed man, but not Mr. Thornhill,
stepping out, clasped my daughter round the waist,
and forcing her in, bade the postilion drive on, so that
they were out of sight in>a moment.
" Now," cried I, " the sum of my miseries is made
up, nor is it in the power of anything on earth to give
me another pang. What ! not one left ! — not to leave
me one ! — The monster ! — The child that was next my
heart !— she had the beauty of an angel, and almost
the wisdom of an angel. — But support that woman,
nor let her fall. — Not to leave me one ! "
" Alas ! my husband," said my wife, u you seem to
want comfort even more than I. Our distresses are
256 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
great, but I could bear this and more, if I saw you but
easy. ' They may take away my children, and all the
world, if they leave me but you."
My son, who was present, endeavoured to moderate
our grief; he bade us take comfort, for he hoped that
we might still have reason to be thankful. " My
child," cried I, " look round the world, and see if there
be any happiness left me now. Is not every ray of
comfort shut out, while all our bright prospects only-
lie beyond the grave ? " — " My dear father," returned
he, " I hope there is still something that will give you
an interval of satisfaction ; for I have a letter from my
brother George." — " What of him, child ? " interrupted
I ; " does he know our misery ? I hope my boy is
exempt from any part of what his wretched family
suffers ? " — " Yes, Sir," returned he, " he is perfectly
gay, cheerful, and happy. His letter brings nothing
but good news ; he is the favourite of his colonel, who
promises to procure him the very next lieutenancy that
becomes vacant."
" And are you sure of all this ? " cried my wife f
" are you sure that nothing ill has befallen my boy ? "
— " Nothing, indeed, Madam," returned my son ; " you
shall see the letter, which will give you the highest
pleasure; and if anything can procure you comfort, I
am sure that will." — " But are you sure," still repeated *
she, " that the letter is from himself, and that he is
really so happy ? ". — " Yes, Madam," replied he, " it is
certainly his, and he will one day be the credit and
support of our family." — " Then, I thank Providence,"
cried she, " that my last letter to him has miscarried.
Yes, my dear," continued she, turning to me, " I will
now confess, that though the hand of Heaven is sore
1
HAPPINESS AND MISERY 257
upon us in other instances, it has been favourable here.
By the last letter I wrote my son, which was in the
bitterness of anger, I desired him, upon his mother's
blessing, and if he had the heart of a man, to see
justice done his father and sister, and , avenge our
cause. But, thanks be to Him that directs all things,
has miscarried, and I am at rest." — " Woman ! " cried
I, 4< thou hast done very ill, and, at another time, my
roaches might have been more severe. Oh ! what
^tremendous gulf hast thou escaped, that would have
tarieq both thee and him in endless ruin ! Providence,
indeed, has here been kinder to us than we to ourselves.
hatf reserved that son to be the father and protector
^^roiy; children when I shall be away. How unjustly
I complain of being stripped of every comfort,
vvMh still I hear that he is happy, and insensible of
our afflictions ; still kept in reserve to support his
vvttlcwed mother, and to protect his brothers and
D But what sisters has he left ? He has no
■ now : they are all gone, robbed from me, and I
■done." — " Father," interrupted my son, " I beg
;. wfll give me leave to read this letter — I know it
Ufase you." Upon which, with my permission, he
read as follows :
LOURED SIR, — I have called off my imagination
loments from the pleasures that surround me,
: it upon objects that are still more pleasing, — the
little fireside at home. My fancy draws that
ss group, as listening to every line of this with
Composure. I view those faces with delight,
which never felt the deforming hand of ambition or
l! But, whatever your happiness may be at
S
258 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD ghap.
home, I am sure it will be some addition to it to hear,
that I am perfectly pleased with my situation, and
every way happy here.
Our regiment is countermanded, and is not to leave
the kingdom. The colonel, who professes himself > my
friend, takes me with him to all companies where he is
acquainted, and, after my first visit, I generally find
myself received with increased respect upon repeating
it. I danced last night with Lady G , and, could
I forget you know whom, I might be perhaps successful.
But it is my fate still to remember others, while I arrf
myself forgotten by most of my absent friends ; and in
this number, I fear, Sir, that I must consider you ;> fo^
I have long expected the .pleasure of a letter fron*
home, to no purpose. Olivia and Sophia too promised to
write, but seem to have forgotten me. Tell them they
are two arrant little baggages, and that I am, at this
moment, in a most violent passion with them ; yet still,
I know not how, though I want to bluster a Utile* my
heart is respondent only to softer emotions. Then, tell
them, Sir, that, after all, I love them affectionately ; and
be assured of my ever remaining
Your dutiful 9
Son.
" In all our miseries," cried I, " what thanks have we
not to return, that one at least of our family is
exempted from what we suffer ! Heaven be his guard,
and keep my boy thus happy, to be the support of his
widowed mother, and the father of these two babes,
which is all the patrimony I can now bequeath him !
May he keep their innocence from the temptations of
want, and be their conductor in the paths of honour !
I had scarce said these words, when a noise like that
HAPPINESS AND MISERY
259
of a tumult seeme4 to proceed from the prison below :
it died away soon after, and a clanking of fetters was
heard along the passage that led to my apartment.
The keeper of the prison entered, holding a man all
bloody, wounded, and fettered with the heaviest irons,
I looked with compassion on the wretch as he ap-
proached me, but with horror, when I found it was my
own son. " My George ! my George ! and do I behold
thee thus ? Wounded — fettered ! Is this thy happi-
ness ? is this the manner you return to me ? Oh that
26o THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
this sight could break my heart at once, and let me
die!"
" Where, Sir, is your fortitude ? " returned my son,
with an intrepid voice. " I must suffer ; my life is
forfeited, and let them take it."
I tried to restrain my passions for a few. minutes in
silence, but I thought I should have died with the
effort. — " Oh, my boy, my heart weeps to behold thee
thus, and I cannot, cannot help it. In the moment
that I thought thee blest, and prayed for thy safety, to
behold thee thus again ! Chained — wounded ; and yet
the death of the youthful is happy. But I am old, a
very old man, and have lived to see this day ! To
see my children all untimely falling about me, while I
continue a wretched survivor in the midst of ruin !
May all the curses that ever sunk a soul fall heavy upon
the murderer of my children ! May he live, like me, to
see "
" Hold, Sir ! " replied my son, " or I shall blush for
thee. How, Sir ! forgetful of your age, your holy
calling, thus to arrogate the justice of Heaven, and
fling those curses upward that must soon descend to
crush thy own grey head with destruction ! No, Sir,
let it be your care now to fit me for that vile death I
must shortly suffer ; to arm me with hope and resolu-
tion ; to give me courage to drink of that bitterness
which must shortly be my portion."
" My child, you must not die : I am sure no offence
of thine can deserve so vile a punishment. My George
could never be guilty of any crime to make his ancestors
ashamed of him."
" Mine, Sir," returned my son, " is, I fear, an un-
pardonable one. When I received my mother's letter
xxviii HAPPINESS AND MISERY 261
from home, I immediately came down, determined to
punish the betrayer of our honour, and sent him an
order to meet me, which he answered, not in person,
but by despatching four of his domestics to seize me.
I wounded one who first assaulted me, and I fear
desperately ; but the rest made me their prisoner. The
coward is determined to put the law in execution
against me ; the proofs are undeniable : I have sent a
challenge, and as I am the first transgressor upon the
statute, I see no hopes of pardon. But you have often
charmed me with your lessons of fortitude ; let me now,
Sir, find them in your example."
"And, my son, you shall find them. I am now
raised above this world, and all the pleasures it can
produce. From this moment I break from my heart
^ all the ties that held it down to earth, and will prepare
to fit us both for eternity. Yes, my son, I will point
out the way, and my soul shall guide yours in the
ascent, for we will take our flight together. I now see,
and am convinced, you can expect no pardon here ;
and I can only exhort you to seek it at that greatest
tribunal where we both shall shortly answer. But let
us not be niggardly in our exhortation, but let all our
fellow-prisoners have a share. Good gaoler, let them
be permitted to stand here while I attempt to improve
them." Thus saying, I made an effort to rise from my
straw, but wanted strength, and was able only to recline
against the wall. The prisoners assembled themselves
according to my directions, for they loved to hear my
counsel : my son and his mother supported me on either
side ; I looked and saw that none were wanting, and
then addressed them with the following exhortation.
k^Ae tfaa:C2)ea(cn(?s of Jrovctfence cfsmoihstraiecC ' ooli/\regarcftot6k
'W/fly ancfifc >c/%ercrtfe fare 6e(ocd. &ff , Qf, i /n>Yn ffe nature of
'tyeware ancfJain,, t/xk °Pvfetc/{<>d ■mu.tff 6e refiaicC //Ce Satance oftfe'ir
jtffirinjcf in. ife j^$ /&rea/rer.
i)L/ friends, my children, and fellow- sufferers,
when I reflect on the distribution of good
and evil here below, I find that much has
been given man to enjoy, yet still more
Tio suffer. Though we should examine the whole world,
o we shall not find one man so happy as to have nothing
left to wish for ; but we daily see thousands who by
' suicide show us they have nothing left to hope. In
this life, then, it appears that we cannot be entirely
blest, but yet we may be completely miserable.
" Why man should thus feel pain ; why our wretch-
edness should be requisite in the formation of universal
felicity ; why, when all other systems are made' perfect
by the perfection of their subordinate parts, the great
chap, xxix THE DEALINGS OF PROVIDENCE 263
system should require for its perfection parts that are
not only subordinate to others, but imperfect in them-
selves — these are questions that never can be explained,
and might be useless if known. On this subject,
Providence has thought fit to elude our curiosity,
satisfied with granting us motives to consolation.
" In this situation man has called in the friendly
assistance of philosophy ; and Heaven, seeing the
^ incapacity of that to console him, has given him the
aid of religion. The consolations of philosophy are
very amusing, but often fallacious : it tells us that life
is filled with comforts, if we will but enjoy them ; and,
on the other hand, that though we unavoidably have
miseries here, life is short and they will soon be over.
Thus do these consolations destroy each other ; for, if
life is a place of comfort, its shortness must be misery,
and if it be long, our griefs are protracted. Thus
philosophy is weak ; but religion comforts in a higher
strain. Man is here, it tells us, fitting up his mind,
and preparing it for another abode. When the good
man leaves the body, and is all a glorious mind, he
will find he has been making himself a heaven of
happiness here ; while the wretch that has been maimed
and contaminated by his vices, shrinks from his body
with terror, and finds that he has anticipated the
vengeance of Heaven. To religion, then, we must
hold, in every circumstance of life, for our truest
comfort : for if already we are happy, it is a pleasure
to think that we can make that happiness unending ;
vand if we are miserable, it is very consoling to think
that there is a place of rest. Thus, to the fortunate,
religion holds out a continuance of bliss ; to the
wretched, a change from pain.
264 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
" But though religion is very kind to all men, it
has promised peculiar rewards to the unhappy : the
sick, the naked, the houseless, the heavy-laden, and the
prisoner, have ever most frequent promises in our
sacred law. The Author of our religion everywhere
professes himself the wretch's friend, and, unlike the
false ones of this world, bestows all his caresses upon
the forlorn. The unthinking have censured this as
partiality, as a preference without merit to deserve it.
But they never reflect, that it is not in the power even
of Heaven itself to make the offer of unceasing felicity
as great a gift to the happy as to the miserable. To
the first, eternity is but a single blessing, since at most
it but increases what they already possess. To the
latter, it is a double advantage ; for it diminishes their
pain here, and rewards them with heavenly bliss here-
after.
" But Providence is in another respect kinder to the
poor than to the rich ; for as it thus makes the life
after death more desirable, so it smooths the passage .
there. The wretched have /had a long familiarity with
every face of terror. The man of sorrows lays himself
quietly down, without possessions to regret, and but
few ties to stop his departure : he feels only nature's
pang in the final separation, and this is no way greater
than he has often fainted under before ; for, after a
certain degree of pain, every new breach that death
opens in the constitution nature kindly covers with
insensibility.
" Thus Providence has given the wretched two
advantages over the happy in this life, — greater felicity
in dying, and in heaven all that superiority of pleasure
which arises from contrasted enjoyment. _And this
xxix THE DEALINGS OF PROVIDENCE 265
superiority, my friends, is no small advantage, and
seems to be one of the pleasures of the poor man in
the parable ; for though he was already in heaven, and
felt all the raptures it could give, yet it was mentioned
as an addition to his happiness, that he had once been
wretched, and now was comforted ; that he had known
what it was to be miserable, and now felt what it was
to be happy.
"Thus, my friends, y ou see rel igion does what >
philosophy could ne ver do : it shows the equal dealings
ofTTeaven to the happy and the unhappy, and levels
all human enjoyments to nearly the same standard. It
gives" to both rich and poor the same happiness here-
after, and equal hopes to aspire after it ; but if the
rich have the advantage of enjoying pleasure here, the
poor have the endless satisfaction of knowing what it
was once to be miserable, when crowned with endless "
felicity hereafter ; and even though this should be
called a small advantage, yet, being an eternal one, it
must make up by duration what the temporal happiness
of the great may have exceeded by intenseness.
" These are, therefore, the consolations which the
wretched have peculiar to themselves, and in which
they are above the rest of mankind : in other respects,
they are below them. They who would know the
miseries of the poor, must see life and endure it. To
declaim on the temporal advantages they enjoy, is only
repeating what none either believe or practise. The
men who have the necessaries of living, are not poor ;
and they who want them, must be miserable. Yes, my
friends, we must be miserable. No vain efforts of a
refined imagination can soothe the wants of nature, can
give elastic sweetness to the dank vapour of a dungeon,
266 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
or ease to the throbbings of a broken heart. Let the
philosopher from his couch of softness tell us that we
can resist all these ; alas ! the effort by which we
resist them is still the greatest pain. Death is slight,
1 and any man may sustain it ; but torments are
dreadful, and these no man can endure.
" To us then, my friends, the promises of happiness
* in heaven should be peculiarly dear ; for if our reward
be in this life alone, we are then, indeed, of all men the
most miserable. When I look round these gloomy
walls, made to terrify as well as to confine us ; this
light, that only serves to show the horrors of the place ;
those shackles, that tyranny has imposed, or crime
made necessary ; when I survey these emaciated looks,
and hear those groans — oh, my friends, what a glorious
exchange would heaven be for these ! To fly through
"regions unconfmed as air — to bask in the sunshine of
eternal bliss — to carol over endless hymns of praise —
to have no master to threaten or insult us, but the form
of Goodness himself for ever in our eyes ! — when I
think of these things, death becomes the messenger of
very glad tidings ; when I think of these things, his
sharpest arrow becomes the staff of my support ; when
I think of these things, what is there in life worth
having ? when I think of these things, what is there
that should not be spurned away ? kings in their
palaces should groan for such advantages ; but we,
humbled as we are, should yearn for them.
" And shall these things be ours ? Ours they will
certainly be, if we but try for them ; and, what is a
comfort, we are shut out from many temptations that
would retard our pursuit. Only let us try for them,
and they will certainly be ours ; and, what is still a
THE DEALINGS OF PROVIDENCE
267
comfort, shortly too : for if we look back on past life,
it appears but a very short span, and whatever we may
think of the rest of life, it will yet be found of less
duration ; as we grow older, the days seem to grow
shorter, and our intimacy with Time ever lessens the
perception of his stay. Then let us take comfort now,
for we shall soon be at our journey's end ; we shall
soon lay down the heavy burden laid by Heaven upon
us ; and though death, the only friend of the wretched,
for a little while mocks the weary traveller with the
view, and like his horizon still flies before him ; yet the
time will certainly and shortly come, when we shall
cease from our toil ; when the luxurious great ones of
the world shall no more tread us to the earth ; when
we shall think with pleasure of our sufferings below ;
when we shall be surrounded with all our friends, or
such as deserved our friendship ; when our bliss shall
be unutterable, and still, to crown all, unending."
<yl our S^roocir.
\<?n, I had thus finished, and my audience
was retired, the gaoler, who was one of the
most humane of his profession, hoped I
would not be displeased, as what he did was but his
duty, observing, that he must be obliged to remove my
son into a stronger cell, but that he should be per-
mitted to revisit me every morning. I thanked him
for his clemency, and grasping my boy's hand, bade
him farewell, and be mindful of the great duty that
was before him.
I again therefore laid me down, and one of my
little ones sat by my bedside reading, when Mr.
Jenkinson entering, informed me that there was news
ch. xxx HAPPIER PROSPECTS BEGIN TO APPEAR 269
of my daughter ; for that she was seen by a person
about two hours before in a strange gentleman's
company, and that they had stopped at a neighbouring
village for refreshment, and seemed as if returning to
town. He had scarcely delivered this news when the
gaoler came, with .looks of haste and pleasure, to
inform me that my daughter was found. Moses
came running in a moment after, crying out that his
sister Sophia was below, and coming up with our old
friend Mr. Burchell.
Just as he delivered this news, my dearest girl
entered, and, with looks almost wild with pleasure, ran
to kiss me, in a transport of affection. Her mother's
tears and silence also showed her pleasure. " Here,
papa," cried the charming girl, "here is the brave man
to whom I owe my delivery ; to this gentleman's
intrepidity I am indebted for my happiness and
safety " A kiss from Mr. Burchell, whose pleasure
seemed even greater than hers, interrupted what she
was going to add.
" Ah ! Mr. Burchell," cried I, " this is but a wretched
habitation you now find us in ; and we are now very
different from what you last saw us. You were ever
our friend : we have long discovered our errors with
regard to you, and repented of our ingratitude. After
the vile usage you then received at my hands, I am almost
ashamed to behold your face ; yet I hope you'll forgive
me, as I was deceived by a base ungenerous wretch,
who, under the mask of friendship, has undone me."
"It is impossible," cried Mr. Burchell, "that I
should forgive you, as you never deserved my resent-
ment. I partly saw your delusion then, and as it was
out of my power to restrain, I could only pity it."
270 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
" It was ever my conjecture," cried I, " that your
mind was noble ; but now I find it so. But tell me,
my dear child, how thou hast been relieved, or who
the ruffians were who carried thee away?"
" Indeed, Sir," replied she, " as to the villain who
carried me off, I am yet ignorant. For, as my mamma
and I were walking out, he came behind us, and, almost
before I could call for help, forced me into the post-
chaise, and in an instant the horses drove away. I met
several on the road, to whom I cried out for assistance,
but they disregarded my entreaties. In the meantime,
the ruffian himself used every art to hinder me from
crying out.:, he flattered and threatened by turns; and
swore that, if I continued but silent, he intended no
harm. In the meantime, I had broken the canvas
that he had drawn up, and whom should I perceive at
some distance but your old friend Mr. Burchell, walking
along with his usual swiftness, with the great stick for
which we used so much to ridicule him. As soon as
we came within hearing, I called out to him by name,
and entreated his help. I repeated my exclamations
several times, upon which, with a very loud voice, he
bid the postilion stop ; but the boy took no notice,
but drove on with still greater speed. I now thought
he could never overtake us, when, in less than a minute,
I saw Mr. Burchell come running up by the side of the
horses, and, with one blow, knock the postilion to the
ground. The horses, when he was fallen, soon stopped
of themselves, and the ruffian, stepping out, with oaths
and menaces, drew his sword, and ordered him at his
peril, to retire ; but Mr. Burchell, running up, shivered
his sword to pieces, and then pursued him for nearly a
quarter of a mile ; but he made his escape. I was at
xxx HAPPIER PROSPECTS BEGIN TO APPEAR 271
&'•
this time come out myself, willing to assist my de-
liverer ; but he soon returned to me in triumph. The
postilion, who was recovered, was going to make his
escape too ; but Mr. Burchell ordered him at his peril
to mount again and drive back to town. Finding it
impossible to resist, he reluctantly complied, though
the wound he had received seemed, to me at least, to
be dangerous. He continued to complain of the pain
as we drove along, so that he at last excited Mr.
Burchell's compassion, who, at my request, exchanged
272 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
him for another, at an inn where we called on
return."
" Welcome, then," cried I, " my child ! and, tho
her gallant deliverer, a thousand welcomes ! Thougl
our cheer is but wretched, yet our hearts are ready to
receive you. And now, Mr. Burchell, as you have
delivered my girl, if you think her a recompense, she is
yours : if you can stoop to an alliance with a family so
poor as mine, take her ; obtain her consent,— as I
know you have her heart, — and you have mine. And
let me tell you, Sir, that I give you no small treasure : she
has been celebrated for beauty, it is true, but that is
not my meaning, — I give you up a treasure in her *
mind."
" But I suppose, Sir," cried Mr. Burchell, " that you
are apprised of my circumstances, and of my incapacity
to support her as she deserves ? "
. " If your present objection," replied I, " be meant
as an evasion of my offer, I desist : but I know no
man so worthy to deserve her as you ; and if I could
give her thousands, and thousands sought her from me
yet my honest brave Burchell should be my dear
choice."
To all this his silence alone seemed to give a
mortifying refusal : and, without the least reply to my
offer, he demanded if he could not be furnished wit
refreshments from the next inn ; to which jbeh
answered in the affirmative, he ordered them to send
in the best dinner that could be provided upon n
short notice. He bespoke also a dozen of their 1
wine, and some cordials for me ; adding, with a femi
that he would stretch a little for once, and, though in I
prison, asserted he was never better disposed to 1
HAPPIER PROSPECTS BEGIN TO APPEAR 273
fry. The waiter soon made his appearance with
Jparations for dinner; a table was lent us by the
Kpler, who seemed remarkably assiduous ; the wine
3 disposed in order, and two very well dressed dishes
were brought in.
Bly daughter had not yet heard of her poor brother's
tlancholy situation, and we all seemed unwilling to
tgap her cheerfulness by the relation. But it. was in
I' that I attempted to appear cheerful ; the circum-
kces of my unfortunate son broke through all efforts
jissemble ; so that I was at last obliged to damp
I'mirth by relating his misfortunes, and wishing
th&t he might be permitted to share with us ia this
p* interval of satisfaction. After my guests were
;cov< red from the consternation my account had
iduoed, I requested also that Mr. Jenkinson, a fellow-
>ner, might be admitted, and the gaoler granted my
H with an air of unusual submission. The
itfg of my son's irons was no sooner heard along
passage, than his sister ran impatiently to meet
* wjiile Mr. Burchell, in the meantime, asked me if
pn*'s name was George ; to which replying in the
Jative, he still continued silent. As soon as my
ntered the room, I could perceive he regarded Mr.
Burchell with a look of astonishment and reverence.
e on," cried I, " my son ; though we are fallen
7 low, yet Providence has been pleased to grant us
small relaxation from pain. Thy sister is restored
and there is her deliverer : to that brave man it
is that J am indebted for yet having a daughter : give
v boy, the hand of friendship ; he deserves our
warmest gratitude."
r Son seemed all* this while regardless of what I
T
274 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap, a
said, and still continued fixed at a respectful distance,
" My dear brother," cried his sister, " why don't you
thank my good deliverer ? the brave should ever lovH
each other."
He still continued his silence and astonishment* till
our guest at last perceived himself to be known, #nd,
assuming all his native dignity, desired my son to come
forward. Never before had I seen anything so truly
majestic as the air he assumed on this occasion. The
greatest object in the universe, says a certain philo-
sopher, is a good man struggling with adversity ; yet
there is still a greater, which is the good man that;
comes to relieve it. After he had regarded my son for
some time with a superior air — " I again find," said he,
" unthinking boy, that the same crime " — But here
he was interrupted by one of the gaoler's servants, who
came to inform us that a person of distinction, who had
driven into town with a chariot and several attendants,
sent his respects to the gentleman that was- with^ us,
and begged to know when he should think proper to
be waited upon. " Bid the fellow wait," cried our
guest, " till I shall have leisure to receive him : " and
then turning to my son, " I again find, Sir," proceeded
he, " that you are guilty of the same offence for which
you once had my reproof, and for which the law is now
preparing its justest punishments. You imagine, per-
haps, that a contempt for your own life gives you. a
right to take that of another : but where, Sir, is 4 the
difference between a duellist, who hazards a life of no
value, and the murderer who acts with greater security ?
Is it any diminution of the gamester's fraud, when he
alleges that he has staked a counter ? " •
" Alas, Sir," cried I, " whoever you are, pity the
xxx HAPPIER PROSPECTS BEGIN TO APPEAR 275
poor misguided creature ; for what he has done was in
obedience to a deluded mother, who, in the bitterness
of her resentment, required him, upon her blessing, to
avenge her quarrel. Here, Sir, is the letter, which will
serve to convince you of her imprudence, and diminish
his guilt."
He took the letter, and hastily read it over.
" This," says he, " though not a perfect excuse, is such
a palliation of his fault as induces me to forgive him.
And now, Sir," continued he, kindly taking my son by
the hand, " I see you are surprised at finding me here ;
but I have often visited prisons upon occasions less
interesting. I am now come to see justice done a
worthy man, for whom I have the most sincere esteem.
I have long been a disguised spectator of thy father's
benevolence. I have, at his little dwelling, enjoyed
respect uncontaminated by flattery ; and have received
that happiness that courts could not give, from the
amusing simplicity around his fireside. My nephew
has been apprised of my intentions of coming here,
and, I find, is arrived. It would be wronging him and
you to condemn him without examination : if there be
injury, there shall be redress ; and this I may say,
without boasting, that none have ever taxed the in-
justice of Sir William Thornhill."
We now found the personage whom we had so long
entertained as an harmless amusing companion, was no
other than the celebrated Sir William Thornhill, to
whose virtues and singularities scarce any were strangers.
The poor Mr. Burchell was in reality a man of large
fortune and great interest, to whom senates listened
with applause, and whom party heard with conviction ;
who was the. friend of his country, but loyal to his
276 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
king. My poor wife, recollecting her former familiarity,
seemed to shrink with apprehension ; but Sophia, who
a few moments before thought him her own, now
perceiving the immense distance to which he was
removed by fortune, was unable to conceal her tears.
" Ah ! Sir," cried my wife, with a piteous aspect,
" how is it possible that I can ever have your forgive-
ness ? The slights you received from me the last time
I had the honour of seeing you at our house, and the
jokes which I audaciously threw out — these jokes, Sir,
I fear, can never be forgiven."
" My dear good lady," returned he with a smile, " if
you had your joke, I had my answer : I'll leave it to
all the company if mine were not as good as yours.
i/To say the truth, I know nobody whom I am disposed
to be angry with at present, but the fellow who so
frighted my little girl here. I had not even time to
examine the rascal's person so as to describe him in an
advertisement. Can you tell me, Sophia, my dear,
whether you should know him again ? "
" Indeed, Sir," replied she, li I can't be positive ; yet
now I recollect, he had a large mark over one of his
eyebrows." — " I ask pardon, Madam," interrupted Jen-
kinson, who was by, " but be so good as to inform me
if the fellow wore his own red hair ? " — " Yes, I think
so," cried Sophia. " And did your honour," continued
he, turning to Sir William, " observe the length of his
legs ? " — " I can't be sure of their length," cried the
Baronet, " but I am convinced of their swiftness ; for
he outran me, which is what I thought few men in the
kingdom could have done." — "Please your honour,"
cried Jenkinson, " I know the man : it is certainly the
same ; the best runner in England ; he has beaten
xxx HAPPIER PROSPECTS BEGIN TO APPEAR 277
Pinwire of Newcastle : Timothy Baxter is his name ; I
know him perfectly, and the very place of his retreat
this moment. /if your honour will bid Mr. Gaoler let
two of his men go with me, HI engage to produce him
to you in an hour at farthest/' Upon this the gaoler
was called, who instantly appearing, Sir William
demanded if he knew him. " Yes, please your honour,"
replied the gaoler, " I know Sir William Thornhill well,
and everybody that knows anything of him will desire
to know more of him." — " Well, then," said the
Baronet, " my request is, that you will permit this man
and two of your servants to go upon a message by my
authority ; and as I am in the commission of the
peace, I undertake to secure you." — " Your promise is
sufficient," replied the other, "and you may, at a
minute's warning, send them over England whenever
your honour thinks fit."
In pursuance' of the gaoler's - compliance, Jenkinson
was despatched in search of Timothy Baxter, while we
were amused with the assiduity of our youngest boy
Bill, who had just come in and climbed up Sir William's
neck, in order to kiss him. His mother was immediately
going to chastise his familiarity, but the worthy man
prevented her ; and taking the child, all ragged as he
was, upon his knee, " What, Bill, you chubby rogue,"
cried he, lt do you remember your old friend Burchell ?
and Dick, too, my honest veteran, are you here ? you
shall find I have not forgot you." So saying, he gave
each a large piece of gingerbread, which the poor
fellows ate very heartily, as they had got that morning
but a very scanty breakfast.
We now sat down to dinner, which was almost cold ;
but previously, my arm still continuing painful, Sir
2 7 8
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
William wrote a prescription, for he had made the study
of physi£ his amusement, . and was more than
moderately skilled in the profession : this being sent to
an apothecary who lived in the place, my arm was
dressed, and I found almost instantaneous relief. We
were waited upon at dinner by the gaoler himself, who
was willing to do our guest all the honour in his power.
HAPPIER PROSPECTS BEGIN TO APPEAR
279
But before we had well dined, another message was
brought from his nephew, desiring permission to appear
in order to vindicate his innocence and honour ; with
which request the Baronet complied, and desired Mr.
Thornhill to be introduced.
OCaftier IQQCr.
^-tTbrmjey Jjenevo/Pnce now r°j6ccic^iocfjCa.n.e?cjtec&{" Jkterejt:
\9t THORNHILL made his appearance with
a smile, which he seldom wanted, and was going to
embrace his uncle, which the other repulsed with an air
of disdain. " No fawning, Sir, at present," cried the
Baronet, with a look of severity ; " the only way to my
heart is by the road of honour; but here I only see
complicated instances of falsehood, cowardice, and
oppression. How is it, Sir, that this poor man, for J
whom I know you professed a friendship, is used thus
hardly ? His daughter vilely seduced as a recompense
for his hospitality, and he himself thrown into prison,
perhaps but for resenting the insult ? His son, too, whom
you feared to face as a man"
" Is it possible, Sir," interrupted his nephew, " that
my uncle should object that as a crime, which his
repeated instructions alone have persuaded me to
avoid ? "
" Your rebuke," cried Sir William, " is just ; you
have acted, in this instance, prudently and well, though
not quite as your father would have done : my brother,
chap, xxxi FORMER BENEVOLENCE REPAID 281
indeed, was the soul of honour ; but thou Yes,
you have acted, in this instance, perfectly right, and it
has my warmest approbation."
" And I hope," said his nephew, " that the rest of
my conduct will not be found to deserve censure. I
appeared, Sir, with this gentleman's daughter at some
places of public amysement : thus, what was levity,
scandal called by a harsher name, and it was reported
I had debauched her. I waited on her father in
person, willing to clear the thing to his satisfaction, and
he received me only with insult and abuse. As for the
rest, with regard to his being here, my attorney and
steward can best inform you, as I commit the manage-,
ment of business entirely to them. If he has contracted
debts, and is unwilling, or even unable to pay them, it
is their business to proceed in this manner : and I see
no hardship or injustice in pursuing the most legal
means of redress."
" If this," -cried Sir William, " be as you have stated
it, there is nothing unpardonable in your offence ; and
though your conduct might have been more generous
in not suffering this gentleman to be oppressed by
subordinate tyranny, yet it has been at least equitable."
" He cannot contradict a single particular," replied
the Squire ; " I defy him to do so ; and several of my
servants are ready to. attest what I say. Thus, Sir,"
continued he, finding mat I was silent, for in fact I
could not contradict him — "thus, Sir, my own in-
nocence is vindicated : but though at your entreaty I
am ready to forgive this gentleman every other offence,
yet his attempts to lessen me in your esteem excite a
resentment that I cannot govern. And this, too, at a
time when his son was actually preparing to take away
282 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
my life, — this, I say, was such guilt, that I am deter-
mined to let the law take its course. I have here the
challenge that was sent me, and two witnesses to prove
it : one of my servants has been wounded dangerously ;
and even though my uncle himself should dissuade me,
which I know he will not, yet I will see public justice
done, and he shall suffer for it." ♦
" Thou monster ! " cried my wife, " hast thou not
had vengeance enough already, but must my poor boy
feel thy cruelty ? I hope that good Sir William will
protect us ; for my son is as innocent as a child : I am
sure he is, and never did harm to -man."
" Madam," replied the good man, " your wishes for
his safety are, not greater than mine ; but I am sorry
to find his guilt too plain ; and if my nephew per-
sists " But the appearance of Jenkinson and v the
gaoler's two servants now called off our attention, who
entered, hauling in a tall man, very genteelly dressed,
and answering the description already given of the
ruffian who had carried off my daughter. " Here," cried
Jenkinson, pulling him in, " here we have him ; and if
ever there was a candidate for Tyburn, this is one."
The moment Mr. Thornhill perceived the prisoner,
and Jenkinson who had him in custody, he seemed to
shrink back with terror. His face became pale with
conscious guilt, and he would have withdrawn, but
Jenkinson, who perceived his design, stopped him.
" What, Squire," cried he, " are you ashamed of your
two old acquaintances, Jenkinson and Baxter? But
this is the way that all great men forget their friends,
though I am resolved we will not forget you. Our
prisoner, please your honour," continued he, turning to
Sir William, " has already confessed all. This is the
FORMER BENEVOLENCE REPAID
283
gentleman reported to be so dangerously wounded.
He declares that it was Mr. Thornhill who first put
him upon this affair ; that he gave him the clothes he
now wears, to appear like a gentleman, and furnished
him with the post-chaise. The plan was laid between
284 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
them, that he should carry off the young lady to a
place of safety, and that there he should threaten and
terrify her ; but Mr. Thornhill was to come in, in the
meantime, as if by accident, to her rescue ; and that
they should fight a while, and then he was to run off,
— by which Mr. Thornhill would have the better oppor-
tunity of gaining her affections himself, under the
character of her defender."
Sir William remembered the coat to have been
worn by his nephew, and all the rest the prisoner
himself confirmed by a more circumstantial account ;
concluding, that Mr. Thornhill had often declared to
him that he was in love with both sisters at the same
time.
" Heavens ! " cried Sir William, " what a viper have
I been fostering in my bosom ! And so fond of public
justice, too, as he seemed to be ! But he shall have it:
secure him, Mr. Gaoler — Yet, hold ! I fear there is not
legal evidence to detain him."
Upon this Mr. Thornhill, with the utmost humility,
entreated that two such abandoned wretches might not
be admitted as evidences against him, but that his
servants should be examined. " Your servants ! " replied
Sir William. " Wretch ! call them yours no longer :
but come, let us hear what those fellows have to say ;
let his butler be called."
When the butler was introduced, he soon perceived
by his former master's looks that all his power was
now over. " Tell me," cried Sir William, sternly,
"have you ever seen your master, and that fellow
dressed up in his clothes, in company together ? " —
" Yes, please your honour," cried the butler, " a thousand
times : he was the man that always brought him his
xxxi FORMER BENEVOLENCE REPAID 285
ladies." — " How ! " interrupted young Mr. Thornhill,
" this to my face ? " — " Yes," replied the butler, " or to
any man's face. To tell you a truth, Master Thornhill,
I never either loved you or liked you, and I don't care
if I tell you now a piece of my mind." — " Now, then,"
cried Jenkinson, " tell his honour whether you know
anything of me." — " I can't say," replied the butler,
"that I know much good of you. The night that
gentleman's daughter was deluded to our house, you
were one of them." — " So then," cried Sir William, " I
find you have brought a very fine witness to prove
your innocence : thou stain to humanity ! to associate
with such wretches ! But," continuing his examination,
"you tell me, Mr. Butler, that this was the person who
brought him this old gentleman's daughter." — " No,
please your honour," replied the butler, "he did not
bring her, for the Squire himself undertook that business ;
but he brought the priest that pretended to marry
them." — " It is but too true," cried Jenkinson ; " I
cannot deny it ; that was the employment assigned me,
and I confess it to my confusion."
" Good heavens ! " exclaimed the Baronet, " how
every new discovery of his villainy alarms me ! All his
guilt is now too plain, and I find his present prosecution
was dictated by tyranny, cowardice, and revenge. At
my request, Mr. Gaoler, set this young officer, now
your prisoner, free, and trust to me for the consequences.
I'll make it my business to set the affair in a proper
light to my friend the magistrate, who has committed
him. But where is the unfortunate young lady herself?
Let her appear to confront this wretch : I long to
know by what arts he has seduced her. Entreat her
to come in. Where is she ? " •
286
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
" Ah ! sir," said I, " that question stings me to the
heart : I was once indeed happy in a daughter, but
her miseries " Another interruption here prevented
me ; for who should make her appearance but Miss
Arabella Wilmot, who was next day to have been
married to Mr. Thornhill. Nothing could equal her
surprise at seeing Sir William and his nephew here
before her ; for her arrival
was quite accidental. It
happened that she and the
old gentleman, her father,
were passing through the
town, on the way to her
aunt's, who had insisted that
her nuptials with Mr. Thorn-
hill should be consummated
at her house ; but stopping
for refreshment, they put up
at an inn at the other end
of the town. It was there,
c/& C-*r*sd J** /&*,! from the window, that the
young lady happened to observe one of my little boys
playing in the street, and instantly sending a footman
to bring the child to her, she learned from him some
account of our misfortunes ; but was still kept ignorant
of young Mr. Thornhill's being the cause. Though
her father made several remonstrances on the impropriety
of going to a prison to visit us, yet they were in-
effectual ; she desired the child to conduct her, which
he did, and it was thus she surprised us at a juncture
so unexpected.
Nor can I go on without a reflection on those
accidental meetings, which, though they happen every
xxxi FORMER BENEVOLENCE REPAID 287
day, seldom excite our surprise but upon some extra-
ordinary occasion. To what a ^fortuitous c oncurrence
do we not owe every pleasure and convenience of our
lives ! How many seeming accidents must unite before
we can be clothed or fed ! The peasant must be
disposed to labour, the shower must fall, the wind fill
the merchant's sail, or numbers must want the usual
supply.
We all continued silent for some moments, while
my charming pupil, which was the name I generally
gave this young lady, united in her looks compassion
and astonishment, which gave new finishing to her
beauty. — " Indeed, my dear Mr. Thornhill," cried she
to the Squire, who she supposed was come here to
succour, and not to oppress us, " I take it a little
unkindly that you should come here without me, or
never inform me of the situation of a family so dear to
us both : you know I should take as much pleasure in
contributing to the relief of my reverend old master
here, whom I shall ever esteem, as you can. But I
find that, like your uncle, you take a pleasure in doing
good in secret."
" He find pleasure in doing good ! " cried Sir
William, interrupting her. " No, my dear, his pleasures
are as base as he is. You see in him, Madam, as
complete a villain as ever disgraced humanity. A
wretch, who, after having deluded this poor man's
daughter, after plotting against the innocence of her
sister, has thrown the father into prison, and the eldest
son into fetters because he had the courage to face her
betrayer. And give me leave, Madam, now to
congratulate you upon an escape from the embraces of
such a monster."
288 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 1 chap.
" O goodness ! " cried the lovely girl, " how Have 1
been deceived ! Mr. Thornhill informed me for certain
that this gentleman's eldest son, Captain Primrose, was
gone off to America with his new-married lady."
" My sweetest miss," cried my wife, " he has told
you nothing but falsehoods. My son George never
left the kingdom, nor ever was married. Though you
have forsaken him, he has always loved you too well to
think of anybody else ; and I have heard him say, he
would die a bachelor for your sake." She then
proceeded to expatiate upon the sincerity of her son's
passion : she set his duel with Mr. Thornhill in a
proper light ; from thence she made a rapid digression
to the Squire's debaucheries, his pretended marriages,
and ended with a most insulting picture of his
cowardice.
" Good heavens ! " cried Miss Wilmot, " how very
near have I been to the brink of ruin ! But how great is
my pleasure to have escaped it ! Ten thousand fals
hoods has this gentleman told me! He had at J
art enough to persuade me, that my promise to the' on<;
man I esteemed was no longer binding, since he ha»'
been unfaithful. By his falsehoods I was taught to
detest one equally brave and generous."
But by this time my son was freed from the encum-
brances of justice, as the person supposed to
wounded was detected to be an impostor.
Jenkinson, also, who had acted as his valet-de-chambr
had dressed up his hair, and furnished him with what-
ever was necessary to make a genteel appearance,
now therefore entered handsomely dressed in
regimentals ; and, without vanity (for I am above
he appeared as handsome a fellow as ever wor
FORMER BENEVOLENCE REPAID
289
military dress. As he entered, he made Miss Wilmot
a modest and distant bow, for he was not as yet
acquainted with the change which the eloquence
of his mother had wrought in his favour. But no
decorums could restrain the impatience of his blushing
mistress to be forgiven. Her tears, her looks, all
contributed to discover the real sensations of her heart,
for having forgotten her former
promise, and having suffered uj[[|\
herself to be deluded by an \f,]jp/*
J impostor. My son appeared (f
• amazed at her condescension,
and could scarce believe it real.
I — " Sure, Madam/' cried he,
" this is but delusion ! I can
[ never have merited this ! To
be blessed thus is to be too
I happy." — "No, Sir," replied she;
I " I have been deceived, basely
I deceived, else nothing could
have ever made me unjust to
my promise. You know my
f friendship — you have long known it — but forget what
I have done, and as you once had my warmest vows
of constancy, you shall now have them repeated ; and
j be assured, that, if your Arabella cannot be yours, she
shall never be another's." — " And no other's you shall
be," cried Sir William," "if I have any influence with
your father."
This hint was sufficient for my son Moses, who
immediately flew to the inn where the old gentleman
was, to inform him of every circumstance that had
happened. But in the meantime, the Squire, perceiving
U
290 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
that he was on every side undone, now finding that no
hopes were left from flattery or dissimulation, con-
cluded that his wisest way would be to turn and face
his pursuers. Thus, laying aside all. shame, he
appeared the open, hardy villain. " I find, then," cried
he, u that I am to expect no justice here; but I am
resolved it shall be done me. You shall know, Sir,"
turning to Sir William, " I am no longer a poor
dependant upon your favours. I scorn them. Nothing
can keep Miss Wilmot's fortune from me, which, I
thank her father's assiduity, is pretty large. The
articles, and a bond for her fortune, are signed, and safe
in my possession. It was her fortune, not her person,
that induced me to wish for this match ; and, possessed
of the one, let who will take the other."
This was an alarming blow. Sir William was
sensible of the justice of his claims, for he had been
instrumental in drawing up the marriage articles him-
self. Miss Wilmot, therefore, perceiving that her for-
tune was irretrievably lost, turning to my son, she asked
if the loss of fortune could lessen her value to him ?
" Though fortune," said she, " is out of my power, at
least I have my hand to give."
"And that, Madam," cried her real lover, "was
indeed all that you ever had to give ; at least all that
I ever thought worth the acceptance. And now I
protest, my Arabella, by all that's happy, your want of
fortune this moment increases my pleasure, as it serves
to convince my sweet girl of my sincerity."
Mr. Wilmot now entering, he seemed not a little
pleased at the danger his daughter had just escaped,
and readily consented to a dissolution of the match.
But finding that her fortune, which was secured to Mr.
xxxi FORMER BENEVOLENCE REPAID 291-
Thornhill by bond, would not be given up, nothing
could exceed his disappointment. He now saw that
his money must all go to enrich one who had no
fortune of his own. He could bear his being a rascal,
but to want an equivalent to his daughters fortune was
wormwood. He sat, therefore, for some minutes
employed in the most mortifying speculations, till Sir
William attempted to lessen his anxiety. " I must
confess, Sir," cried he, " that your present disappoint-
ment does not entirely displease me. Your immoderate
passion for wealth is now justly punished. But though
the young lady cannot be rich, she has still a compe-
tence sufficient to give content. Here you see an
honest young soldier, who is willing to take her with-
out fortune : they have long loved each other ; and,
for the friendship I bear his father, my interest shall
not be wanting in his promotion. Leave, then, that
ambition which disappoints you, and for once admit
that happiness which courts your acceptance."
" Sir William," replied the old gentleman, " be
assured I never yet forced her inclinations, nor will I
now. If she still continues to love this young gentle-
man, let her have him, with all my heart. There is
still, thank Heaven, some fortune left, and your promise
will make it something more. Only let my old friend
here " (meaning me) " give me a promise of settling six
thousand pounds upon my girl if ever he should come'
to his fortune, and I am ready, this night, to be the
first to join them together."
As it now remained with me to make the young
couple happy, I readily gave a promise of making the
settlement he required ; which, to one who had such
little expectations as I, was no great favour. We had
292 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
now, therefore, the satisfaction of seeing them fly into
each other's arms in a transport. " After all my mis-
fortunes," cried my son George, " to be thus rewarded !
Sure this is more than I could ever have presumed to
hope for. To be possessed of all that's good, and after
such an interval of pain ! My warmest wishes could
never rise so high ! "
" Yes, my George," returned his lovely bride, " now
let the wretch take my fortune ; since you are happy
without it, so am I. Oh, what an exchange have I
made, — from the basest of men to the dearest, best !'
Let him enjoy our fortune, I can now be happy even
in indigence." — " And I promise you," cried the Squire,
with a malicious grin, " that I shall be very happy with
what you despise." — " Hold, hold, Sir," cried Jenkinson,
" there are two words to that bargain. As for that
lady's fortune, Sir, you shall never touch a single stiver
of it. Pray, your honour," continued he to Sir William,
" can the Squire have this lady's fortune if he be married
to another ? " — " How can you make such a simple
demand ? " replied the Baronet : " undoubtedly he
cannot." — " I am sorry for that," cried Jenkinson ; " for
as this gentleman and I have been old fellow-sporters,
I have a friendship for him. But I must declare, well
as I love him, that this contract is not worth a tobacco-
a
stopper, for he is married already." — " You lie, like a
rascal ! " returned the Squire, who seemed roused by
this insult ; " I never was legally married to any
woman."
" Indeed, begging your honour's pardon," replied the
other, " you were : and I hope you will show a proper
return of friendship to your own honest Jenkinson, who
brings you a wife ; and if the company restrain their
xxxi FORMER BENEVOLENCE REPAID 293
curiosity a few minutes, they shall see her." So saying,
he went off, with his usual celerity, and left us all
unable to form any probable conjecture as to his
design. " Ay, let him go," cried the Squire ; " whatever
else I may have done, I defy him there. I am too old
now to be frightened with squibs."
" I am surprised," said the Baronet, " what the
fellow can intend by this. Some low piece of humour,
I suppose ! " — " Perhaps, Sir," replied I, " he may have
a more serious meaning. For when we reflect on the
various schemes this gentleman has laid to seduce
innocence, perhaps some one more artful than the
rest has been found able to deceive him. When we
consider what numbers he has ruined, how many
parents now feel, with anguish, the infamy and the
contamination which he has brought into their families,
it would not surprise me if some one of them
Amazement ! Do I see my lost daughter ? Do I hold
her ? It is, it is my life, my happiness I I thought
thee lost, my Olivia, yet still I hold thee — and still
thou shalt live to bless me." The warmest transports
of the fondest lover were not greater than mine, when I
saw him introduce my child, and held my daughter in
my arms, whose silence only spoke her raptures.
" And art thou returned to me, my darling," cried I,
" to be my comfort in age ? " — " That she is," cried
Jenkinson ; " and make much of her, for she is your
own honourable child, and as honest a woman as any
in the whole room, let the other be who she will. And
as for you, Squire, as sure as you stand there, this
young lady is your lawful wedded wife : and to convince
you that I speak nothing but the truth, here is the
license by which you were married together." So
294 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap
saying, he put the license into the Baronet's hands,
who read it, and found it perfect in every respect.
" And now, gentlemen," continued he, " I find you are
surprised at all this ; but a few words will explain the
difficulty. That there Squire of renown, for whom I
have a great friendsHIp~(but that's between ourselves),
has often employed me in doing odd little things for
him. Among the rest, he commissioned me to procure
him a false license and a false priest, in order to deceive
this young lady. But as I was very much his friend,
what did I do, but went and got a true license and a
true priest, and married them both as fast as the cloth
could make them. Perhaps you'll think it was gener-
osity that made me do all this : but no ; to my shame
I confess it, my only design was to keep the license,
and let the Squire know that I could prove it upon him
whenever I thought proper, and so make him come down
whenever I wanted money." A burst of pleasure now
seemed to fill the whole apartment ; our joy reached
even to the common room, where the prisoners them-
selves sympathised,
And shook their chains
In transport and rude harmony.
Happiness was expanded upon every face, and even
Olivia's cheek seemed flushed with pleasure. To be
thus restored to reputation, to friends, and fortune at
once, was a rapture sufficient to stop the progress of
decay, and restore former health and vivacity." But,
perhaps, among all, there was not one who felt sincerer
pleasure than I. Still holding the dear loved child in
my arms, I asked my heart if these transports were not
delusion. " How could you," cried I, turning to Mr.
Jenkinson, " how could you add to my miseries by the
xxxi FORMER BENEVOLENCE REPAID 295
story of her death ? But it matters not ; my pleasure
at finding her again is more than a recompense for the
pain."
" As to your question," replied Jenkinson, " that is
easily answered. I thought the only probable means of
freeing you from prison was by submitting to the
Squire, and consenting to his marriage with the other
young lady. But these you had vowed never to grant
while your daughter was living : there was therefore no
other method to bring things to bear, but by persuading
you that she was dead. I prevailed on your wife to
join in the deceit, and we have not had a fit opportunity
of undeceiving you till now."
In the whole assembly now there appeared only
two faces that did not glow with transport. Mr.
ThornhilFs assurance had entirely forsaken him : he
now saw the gulf of infamy and want before him, and
trembled to take the plunge. He therefore fell on his
knees before his uncle, and in a voice of piercing
misery implored compassion. Sir William was going
to spurn him • away, but at my request he raised him,
and, after pausing a few moments, " Thy vices, crimes,
and ingratitude," cried he, " deserve no tenderness ; yet
thou shalt not be entirely forsaken, — a bare competence
shall be supplied to support the wants of life, but not
its follies. This young lady, thy wife, shall be put in
possession of a third part of that fortune which once
was thine, and from her tenderness alone thou art to
expect any extraordinary supplies for the future." He
was going to express his gratitude for such kindness in
a set speech ; but the Baronet prevented him, by bid-
ding him not aggravate his meanness, which was already
but too apparent. He ordered him at the same' time
296 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
to be gone, and from all his former domestics to choose
one, such as he should think proper, which was all that
should be granted to attend him.
As soon as he left us, Sir William very politely
stepped up to his new niece with a smile, and wished
her joy. His example was followed by Miss Wilmot
and her father. My wife, too, kissed her daughter
with much affection ; as, to use* her own expression,
she was now made an honest woman of. Sophia and
Moses followed in turn ; and even our benefactor
Jenkinson desired to be admitted to that honour. Our
satisfaction seemed scarcely capable of increase. Sir
William, whose greatest pleasure was in doing good,
now looked round with a countenance open as the
sun, and saw nothing but joy in the looks of all except
that of my daughter Sophia, who, for some reasons we
could not comprehend, did not seem perfectly satisfied.
" I think now," cried he, with a smile, " that all the
company except one or two seem perfectly happy.
There only remains an act of justice for me to do.
You are sensible, Sir," continued he, turning to me, "of
the obligations we both owe to Mr. Jenkinson ; and it
is but just we should both reward him for it. Miss
Sophia will, I am sure, make him very happy, and he
shall have from me five hundred pounds as her fortune;
and upon this I am sure they can live very comfort-
ably together. Come, Miss Sophia, what say you to
this match of my making ? Will you have him ? "
My poor girl seemed almost sinking into her mother's
arms at the hideous proposal. " Have him, Sir ! "
cried she faintly ; " no, Sir, never ! " — " What ! " cried
he again, " not have Mr. Jenkinson, your benefactor, a
handsome young fellow, with five hundred pounds, and
xxxi FORMER BENEVOLENCE REPAID 297
good expectations ? " — "I beg, Sir," returned she,
scarce able to speak, "that you'll desist, and not make
me so very wretched." — " Was ever such obstinacy
known ? " cried he again, " to refuse a man whom the
family have such infinite obligations to, who has
preserved your sister, and who has five hundred pounds !
What ! not have him ! " — " No, Sir, never ! " replied
she angrily ; " I'd sooner die first." — " If that be the
case, then," cried he, " if you will not have him — I
think I must have you myself." And, so saying, he
caught her to his breast with ardour. " My loveliest,
my most sensible of girls," cried he, " how could you
ever think your own Burchell could deceive you, or
that Sir William Thornhill could ever cease to admire
a. mistress that loved him for himself alone ? I have
for some years sought for a woman, who, a stranger to
my fortune, could think that I had merit as a man.
After having tried in vain, even amongst the pert and
ugly, how great at last must be my rapture to have
made a conquest over such sense and such heavenly
beauty." Then turning to Jenkinson : "As I cannot,
Sir, part with this young lady myself, for she has
taken a fancy to the cut of my face, all the recompense
I can make is to give you her fortune ; and you may
call upon my steward to-morrow for five hundred
pounds." Thus we had all our compliments to repeat,
and Lady Thornhill underwent the same round of
ceremony that her sister had done before. In the
meantime Sir William's gentleman appeared to tell us
that the equipages were ready to carry us to the inn,
where everything was prepared for our reception. My
wife and I led the van, and left those gloomy mansions
of sorrow. The generous Baronet ordered forty pounds
298
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
to be distributed among the prisoners, and Mr. Wilmot,
induced by his example, gave half that sum. We were
received below by the shouts of the villagers, and I saw
•and shook by the hand two or three of my honest
parishioners, who were among the number. They
attended us to our inn, where a sumptuous entertain-
ment was provided, and coarser provisions were dis-
tributed in great quantities among the populace.
After supper, as my spirits were exhausted by the
alternation of pleasure and pain which they had
sustained during the day, I asked permission to with-
FORMER BENEVOLENCE REPAID
299
draw ; and leaving the company in the midst of their
mirth, as soon as I found myself alone, I poured out
my heart in gratitude to the Giver of joy as well as of
sorrow, and then slept undisturbed till morning.
lc next morning, as soon as I awaked, I
found my eldest son sitting by my bed-
side, who came to increase my joy with
another turn of fortune in my favour. '
First having released me from the settlement that I
had. made the day before in his favour, he let me know
that my merchant, who had failed in town, was arrested
at Antwerp, and there had given up effects to a much '
greater amount than what was due to his creditors.
My boy's generosity pleased me almost as much as this
unlooked-for good fortune ; but I had some doubts
whether I ought, in justice, to accept his offer. While
I was pondering upon this Sir William entered the
room, to whom I communicated my doubts. His
opinion was that, as my son was already possessed of a
very affluent fortune by his marriage, I might accept
his offer without any hesitation. His business, however,
was to inform me, that as he had the night before sent
chap, xxxn CONCLUSION 301
for the licenses, and expected them every hour, he
hoped that I would not refuse my assistance in making
all the company happy that morning. A footman
entered while we were speaking, to tell us that the
messenger was returned ; and as I was by this time
ready, I went down, where I found the whole company
as merry as affluence and innocence could make them.
However, as they were now preparing for a very solemn
ceremony, their laughter entirely displeased me. I told
them of the grave, becoming, and sublime deportment
they should assume upon this mystical occasion, and read .
them two homilies, and a thesis of my own composing,
in order to prepare them. Yet they still seemed
perfectly refractory and ungovernable. Even as we
; were going along to church, to which I led the way, all
^gravity had quite forsaken them, and I was often
tempted to turn back in indignation. In church a new
dilemma arose, which promised no easy solution. This
was, which couple should be married first : my son's
bride warmly insisted that Lady Thornhill (that was to
be) should take the lead ; but this the other refused
with equal ardour, protesting she would not be guilty
of such rudeness for the world. The argument was
supported for some time between both, with equal
obstinacy and good breeding. But, as I stood all this
time with my book ready, I was at last quite tired of
the contest ; and, shutting it, " I perceive," cried I,
" that none of you have a mind to be married, and I
think we had as good go back again ; for I suppose
• there will be no business done here to-day." This at
once reduced them to reason. The Baronet and his
lady were first married, and then my son and his lovely
partner.
3 02 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD chap.
I had previously, that morning, given orders that
a coach should be sent for my honest neighbour
Flamborough and his family ; by which means, upon
our return to the inn, we had the pleasure of finding
the two Miss Flamboroughs alighted before us. Mr.
Jenkinson gave his hand to the eldest, and my son
Moses led up the other (and I have since found, that
he has taken a real liking to the girl, and my consent
and bounty he shall have, whenever he thinks proper
to demand them). We were no sooner returned to the
inn, but numbers of my parishioners, hearing of my
success, came to congratulate me ; but, among the rest,
were those who rose to rescue me, and whom I formerly
rebuked with such sharpness. I told the story to Sir
William, my son-in-law, - who went out and reproved
them with great severity ; but finding them quite dis-
heartened by his harsh reproof, he gave them half a
guinea apiece to drink his health, and raise their
dejected spirits.
Soon after this we were called to a very genteel
entertainment, which was dressed by Mr. ThornhilFs
cook. — And it may not be improper to observe with
respect to that gentleman, that he now resides, in
quality of companion, at a relation's house, being very
well liked, and seldom sitting at the side-table, except
when there is no room at the other ; for they make
no stranger of him. His time is pretty much taken up
in keeping his relation, who is a little melancholy, in
spirits, and in learning to blow the French horn. My
eldest daughter, however, still remembers him with
regret ; and she has even told me, though I make a
great secret of it, that when he reforms, she may be
brought to relent. — But to return, for I am not apt to
CONCLUSION
303
digress thus : when we were to sit down to dinner our
ceremonies were going to be renewed. The question
was, whether my eldest daughter, as being a matron,
should not sit above the two young brides ; but the
debate was cut short by my son George, who proposed
that the company should sit indiscriminately, every
gentleman by his lady. This was received with great
approbation by all, excepting my wife, who, I could
304
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
perceive, was not perfectly satisfied, as she expected to
have had the pleasure of sitting at the head of the
table, and carving all the meat for all the company.
But, notwithstanding this, it is impossible to describe
our good humour. I can't say whether we had more
wit among us now than usual ; but I am certain we
had more laughing, which answered the end as well.
c>ff coKcc&je<ft
One jest I particularly remember : old Mr. Wilmot
drinking to Moses, whose head was turned another way,
my son replied, " Madam,- 1 thank you." Upon which
the old gentleman, winking upon the rest of the
company, observed that he was thinking of his mistress.
At which jest I thought the two Miss Flamboroughs
would have died with laughing. As soon as dinner
was over, according to my old custom, I requested that
the table might be taken away to have the pleasure of
seeing all my family assembled once more by a cheerful
IXXII
CONCLUSION
305
fireside. My two little ones sat upon each knee, the
rest of the company by their partners. I had nothing
.now on this side of the grave to wish for : all my cares
were over ; my pleasure was unspeakable. It now only
remained, that my gratitude in good fortune sjiould "W
exceed my former submission in adversity.
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